


Fox Hunt

by iblankedonmyname



Category: Aliens vs Predators Series - Various Authors, Predator (Yautja) & Related Fandoms, Predator (Yautja) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, British, Hunters & Hunting, Interspecies Relationship(s), M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Size Difference, Victorian, Xenophilia, fox gets the cheese, idiocy drives the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:20:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28223775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iblankedonmyname/pseuds/iblankedonmyname
Summary: England, 1882: a yautja interrupts a fox hunt with a hunt of his own.
Relationships: Yautja (Predator)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 63
Kudos: 75





	1. Arrivals

**Author's Note:**

> To be specific, a big part of this is a British guy, from the 19th century, thinks he’s boning a black guy but is really boning an alien. I don’t agree with any of my humans in this story. They are all period-appropriate assholes when it comes to ‘the other’ or ‘the unknown’. If it makes you feel better, most of them die.
> 
> _Edited by the hero[iterations](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iterations)_

The carriage bounced up the gravel drive shy of 10 am in late autumn. Wharton had been feeling his molars clack together at each small bump in the road and his jaw was aching, but not enough to put him off breakfast. He hoped the plates were still out when he arrived. A nice cup of tea would warm his hands as well. His lambskin gloves did little to protect him from the late morning chill. 

The carriage rounded the yew hedge and he caught his first glimpse of the manor house.

Wharton had a family estate as well, but Ipswich was less grandiose than the Earl of Dundee’s. The stone building towered over him as his carriage slowed. The mighty facade was deckled with ample-paned windows. It sat like an overfed toad four stories tall with crenelations along the roof. The dormers facing the sloping lawn down the lake were sharply silhouetted in the bright sun. Still, it was a handsome building and well-situated on the property, albeit a little defensive-looking and overwrought in style. 

Wharton upon stepping down to the gravel drive hoped his passing judgment was because he was a humble man and not because of jealousy. His mum would likely agree with him at least. The building looked aggressive, to say the least.

“Young Lord Wharton. Welcome to Trentham.” The greeting servant bowed deeply, “I hope your journey was expedient.”

Wharton tapped his hat back onto his brown-haired crown now that he was beyond the confines of the carriage’s ceiling. “I preferred the train to the carriage ride, but regardless, has my horse arrived?”

“Not yet, my Lord. They are expected to arrive together with the other guests’ sometime this evening.” The servant eyed the darkness of the carriage. “Do you not travel with a manservant?”

Wharton flushed under the collar. 

“Ah, no. I don’t have a manservant.”

The servant blushed equally. “I meant no disrespect, sir.”

Wharton wished he had his old familiar riding crop to fiddle with, but he charged on despite his embarrassment. “Is it too late for breakfast?”

“Not at all, your Lordship. The table is still out. I’ll direct you.” He spun on his heel promptly and guided Wharton down the walk to the manor’s front door.

He didn’t exactly have the money for a traveling servant. He was so new to the title and the responsibilities. His father had been sick for decades before recently succumbing to death and passing his minuscule wealth and holdings to his eldest. Part of the reason why Wharton was here was to garner some clout with the powerful. The Earl was a second cousin on the side of a marriage. Wharton had barely been able to buy into the hunt. With three younger siblings, he’d have to work hard to build up his resources.

Once the servant had thrown open the door and shepherded Wharton into the Manor his breath caught. It was an incredible marble entry with a double Sheesham stair. In the center was a massive charging elephant, frozen in perfect taxidermied form. It’s ivory tusks were heavy and almost curved in a full circle. Above the wood wainscotting surrounding the room hung heads and heads of exotic animals. Wharton couldn’t name them all, but he recognized a wildebeest, a zebra, and an antelope. Ceremonial spears decorated the spaces in between the animals. A glass weapons cabinet held a series of fine hunting rifles on both sides of the entry.

Wharton’s mouth hung wide. He couldn’t tear his hazel eyes from the elephant. It’s dark marble eyes raged back forever.

“Impressive,” he gasped.

The servant was obviously used to this kind of reaction. He stood a little straighter to emphasize his pride in his master.

“Indeed, the earl is an unmatched hunter. You may hear him regale the party with the story of felling this creature later. It’s one of his favorites. If I may, my lord, the parlor is this way.” He bowed slightly and gestured to an open, carved door.

Wharton was led from one extravagant sitting room through another. Each one featured the same displays of impressive taxidermies, weapons, and heavy furniture. Until at last, Wharton arrived at a pleasant parlor facing a kitchen garden and he recognized he needed to close his hanging mouth.

“Is everything to your liking sir?” The servant queried with a fresh anxiety. Wharton assumed the man was busy and likely had other things to get to.

Wharton glimpsed around at the extensive brunch table to account for the basics first. After spotting toast and scramble, he realized he’d be perfectly content, even if there were heaps of other, more decadent options available.

“Where is the Lord of the Manor?” he asked distractedly. His eyes were already roving about the breakfast table, making plans.

“Shooting pheasant.” And as if timed, the teacups stacked neatly on the banquet table rattled as a gunshot rang from somewhere on the property. Wharton jolted at the surprise racket, but the servant barely blinked. He must be used to this reaction as well. “You can find him on the south green.”

“Or follow the shots, I suppose,” Wharton murmured, more to himself.

“Indeed. Sir, if there is anything else,” the servant asked once again. Wharton shook his head. The man bowed and departed.

Wharton surveyed the bounty of the breakfast options again but decided to have a cup of tea before charging forward on his meal. Once it was made up to his liking, he peered out the large parlor windows. The view was welcoming. He had a full line of sight across the herb garden, through the topiary, and down the lawn. From this viewpoint, he saw the small party tramping across the grass. They each had a rifle slung over the shoulder and were flocked by two or three hounds ready to fetch whatever they shot. The pheasant themselves were nowhere to be seen. 

Wharton, eager to meet the man of the house himself, made himself a quick plate and ate ravishingly, pausing only to breathe and swallow mouthfuls of tea. He was mildly embarrassed in front of the kitchen staff, who likely already thought him an odd young man, but after almost wolfing down his meal, he dashed out to the south green.

He made it halfway down the hill before he realized how ill-equipped he was to join a morning hunt. His travel boots, while sturdy, were really for road wear, not tromping through mud. He was wearing a dark traveling coat instead of a hunt-proper tweed. He wasn’t even carrying a rifle! As he crested the hill cursing himself for his impatience, a shot rang out and a burst of sod ruptured the ground at his feet. Wharton jumped back with his heart in his throat and his eyes wide.

“I say!” he shouted, “Watch your shot!”

“Sorry about that old chap. Thought you were a pheasant in that outfit.” 

The small group chuckled at the young lord up on the mound. Wharton wondered how many times he’d have to put up with being embarrassed today. He straightened his tie and brushed back his dark hair under his mussed hat, but there was no helping the fact that he was not appropriately dressed. He huffed to himself before ambling down the slope.

The weapon’s owner was a broadly built, strong-jawed emissary with a thick mustache. He snapped the barrel of his rifle to unload the spent cartridge. 

“I’m George Stanley,” his voice boomed in a rich baritone.

“Sir George Stanley,” the woman to his right reminded him. She was a fresh, sharp thing. Even in the mist and murk of the country, Wharton could tell she was stylish. Her bottle-green hat decorated with a pheasant’s feather gave her away.

“Commander!” a stout man to his left added helpfully. This man had a beer gut and heavy sideburns. He was aging poorly.

George Stanley looked from one to the other in a mockery of helplessness. To Wharton, there was nothing helpless about the man.

“I’m the Earl of Dundee,” Stanley concluded. He offered his hand. “And you must be...don’t tell me… Little Bertie Wharton!”

Wharton tugged the edges of his waistcoat down. Apparently, there would be no end to his embarrassment. Still, he took the Earl’s rugged hand and shook it.

“I’m a Lord now, sir. I haven’t been Bertie since university.”

“Which was when? Two days ago?” chortled the well-dressed woman.

“Two years,” hissed Wharton under his breath, but he recovered with a smile. “I thought I’d come join you for a bout around the country.”

“Well you obviously aren’t trying to hunt without a gun,” the stout man had lit a pipe and was shaking out the match, “and in silk trousers, nonetheless.”

Wharton stewed in his discomfort. “No, I...got a little carried away with my excitement to greet the hunting party.”

“We’re not the full party, but at the moment, greeted them you have!” The Earl smiled broadly, “But please join us. Tell us of your adventures traveling by train.” And this last sentence dripped with so much sarcasm, Wharton wanted to crawl back up the hill to seclude himself in the breakfast parlor with another quiet cup of tea. He wasn’t made to accept this level of teasing from so proud a man.

But he didn’t depart with his tail between his legs, he swallowed dryly and fell into step behind the party with the stout man. A hound continued to loop around his knees, so Wharton would pat it’s boney, velveteen head whenever he could reach. His blush had yet to leave when his companion spoke up.

“Don’t mind us, my boy. We’re only out for a bit of fun,” he murmured, “at your expense, but you’ll need a tougher skin for the house of lords.”

Wharton muttered understandingly but internally he fumed. “And you are, my lord?”

“Captain Scotts Grifith, at your service. We’ve corresponded already.”

“Ah, the Lord of the Hunt! A pleasure to meet the man behind the penmanship.” Wharton offered his hand, and Grifith shook it warmly. Wharton had written this man missives, so he looked him over again. “It’s good to meet you. Thank you for allowing me to join the party.”

“Naturally, naturally, of course. Can’t say no to a new face!” He puffed happily on his pipe. “I live over the ridge at the neighboring manor. I’ll be bringing the dogs tomorrow morning. Even they’re excited. They can tell we’re preparing for a hunt.”

“Is the hunting good?” Wharton noted that two servants flanked them with two hands full of slain birds.

“Excellent! The Earl’s hunting grounds are impeccable. He rarely sees a poor season.”

“And the fox for tomorrow?”

“There are actually two on the property. We saw one of them just this morning. He’s a large fellow, proud, but it struck me as him snooping the competition. I have a feeling that scruff will give us a good run. He looked cunning. Is this your first hunt?”

Wharton snorted. “Hardly, I was blooded when I was seven.”

“Ahhh, a blooding!? In Ipswich? I might have expected something like that from a Welshman, but who was your hunt master?”

Wharton could still remember the crisp air on the moors a decade and a half later. The fresh snowfall was speckled red. In a mess of mud and dog tracks lay the poor expired fox. The huntmaster had taken a thumbprint of blood from the animal and smeared two swatches on Wharton’s numbed cheeks. Then he ruffled the boy’s dark head. Hours later, Wharton spotted the brown marks in the mirror. They had held on despite the mist. He had to scrub them off.

At this point, the young woman dropped back with her gloved hand extended.

“My name is Vanessa Cobb.”

Immediately after they shook hands, she raised her rifle and shot into the brush. Wharton’s ears protested sharply against the blast. The dog that had been flanking him darted off into the bush.

“Apologies, I can’t let a pheasant go unbothered. I’m in competition with Stanley, but he’s trouncing me!”

Wharton’s ears were still ringing. “He is a great hunter then?”

“Oh superb! Have you not heard of his exploits in Africa?” Cobb reloaded her weapon as the dog reappeared with a fat bird in its maw. “How exactly did you come to join this party then?”

“I’m friends with his cousin. We met at Oxford.”

Cobb nodded but was more distracted by the return of her fallen pheasant. The corner of her lips curled giving her the sudden shimmering appearance of a young cherub. 

“I’ve almost caught up,” Cobb murmured as the servant retrieved the pheasant from the hound. “Well, Stanley was in the Zulu War of course. When the war ended, he stayed on to hunt the fauna of Africa. I’m sure you saw the elephant in the entry. Everything you saw in that house was shot by Stanley himself.”

“It’s a sensational trophy room...well...building.” Wharton couldn’t find the right word to describe the overwrought manor. There were remnants of animals everywhere through the expansive rooms.

“Yes, he’s legendary,” she said wistfully breathless.

Wharton wasn’t quite sure of the missus, but he could only assume she was after Stanley’s impressive...lineage. She was quite a catch, but Wharton had already decided she wasn’t worth the work. In his muddied trousers, sans shotgun, he was hardly a match for Stanley’s debonair flair. His eyes followed the back of the man, boldly striding ahead of the party.

“Say,” Cobb snapped her head back from Stanley’s hindquarters, “I know you. You aced the recent North Country Steeplechase!”

Wharton blushed lightly but for once this morning, not in embarrassment.

“Why yes. I won the ribbon. It was a tough race, but I trust my horse, Trinidad, with my life. She’s never led me astray. She always listens. The most faithful companion I’ve ever rode.”

“You’re quite something on a horse,” Cobb ribbed him jovially. Wharton continued to blush.

After an hour-long, the quad returned up to the manor. The servants’ hands were overloaded with pheasant. Stanley had won against Cobb by two, which was still an impressive count, but Cobb stewed minutely in passive-aggressive British good-sportsmanship. There were a few more huntsmen up at the house by the time they reached the sitting room for tea to warm them from the damp.

Unbeknownst to them, they were being watched.


	2. The Hunters

Humans knew nothing of cloaking technology. Hours ago, Kar’minja had parked his ship on the manor’s roof. The landing extensions unfurled from the bottom of the vessel in a gale of wind and clawed into the mansion’s shingles. A lone servant in the gravel drive below had looked up at the falling slate shingles but did nothing except make a mental note to tell the head servant that the roof might need tending to next spring. 

Karmine spread his mandibles in a lopsided grin as he perched on one of the building’s gargoyles. The muscles around his mouth were mutilated badly as a pup but had healed into one of his proudest scars. He enjoyed it so much, the marking was mimicked on his mask. This wound was commonly called the Fultonebonia’s kiss, and few lived to sport it as a scar. The Fultone was an alien that burrowed into a mouth and ripped a creature apart from the inside. As a young blood, Karmine was reckless. Fighting the swarm of Fultone was harder than his eventual chiva. A Fultone’s small skull hung from his belt along with several other past prey, and he was hoping to add another to his collection.

He heard humans were excellent quarry. They were cunning prey, and naturally, he was eager to see the splendor of their planet and the species for himself. From his cloaked viewpoint, watching the humans tromp over the grass loudly felling birds, he wasn’t impressed. They were fairly rudimentary. The guns they used were simple fire-based projectiles that held two loads. Karmine considered the fairness of his over-the-shoulder cannon with its unlimited plasma-generating rounds. He couldn’t use that against these primitives. It simply wouldn’t be fun. The gun folded down into his shoulder holster.

The morning mist was speckling his invisible body. Karmine made a note to be careful about the island’s weather. If  _ dew _ , gave his location away to his prey, he’d curse himself for his stupidity. He dropped to the ground, leaving small craters in the soft soil, and like a ghost, parted through the mist to observe the humans closer. Their voices were garbled in his mask, but their heat signatures blazed brightly in the cool morning temperatures. Already one of them was piquing his interest. He was more muscular than the others, straight-backed, efficient, and in their simple competition, winning.

While watching the humans, Karmine snapped alert. His instincts told him he was being covertly observed. He quickly scanned the hunting ground from his perch and locked eyes with a four-legged furry alien. Its pelt was the same auburn red as Karmine’s. The creature stared at him despite Karmine’s invisibility cloak. Karmine blinked back, unmoving and on alert. Eventually, during their standoff, the red beast flipped its fluffy tail in what seemed like a casual disregard and wandered into the bushes. Karmine relaxed. Perhaps there were other interesting aliens to hunt on Earth besides humans.

He patiently continued to watch the hunt from the branch of a dead oak tree. The humans remained unaware of his presence as they collected their own trophies. Hours later, they tromped up the slope back to their dwelling. More and more of the species arrived to fill the halls of the home. Karmine was curious as to the reason behind their gathering. As the mist departed for the crisp afternoon and then frosted in the dusk, Karmine snuck closer to the manor and observed them through the unobscured windows. His selected prey held a high post among the men and women.

The group was finishing a communal meal when a herd of stampeding beasts arrived. Karmine tilted his head. They were beautiful creatures, likely very fast and mountable. However, the herd disturbed the tranquility of the night. In the flickering gas lamps of the drive, he must’ve looked quite alien, shrouded in invisibility, darkness, and frost, because a servant helping to corral the beasts, snapped his panicked eyes on Karmine’s form and bolted into a side door.

Karmine cursed himself and scaled up the façade to a more secluded location as more humans poured from the building with hand-held lamps. 

“A ghost?” Grifith groused from the drive, “How inconceivable! He can’t be serious!”

Cobb had wrapped an ermine shawl around her bare shoulders. Her hand was perched on his elbow crease like he was escorting her to a party.

“Oh, Grifith! He’s a simple servant boy. He’s probably overworked and seeing things.” Cobb chastised him. “But what fun! I do always love a good scare, don’t you?”

Grifith’s disgruntled hurumph proved he didn’t enjoy a scare. Ever. 

“You’ve never seen war, m’Lady. There are no good scares. I crave a brandy and a smoke to settle my nerves. Lord, it’s brisk out here!”

Meanwhile, Wharton was relieved to see Trinidad in the herd of horses that recently arrived at the manor from the train. He lowered his lantern and left the eager party to rub his companion’s long neck. The animal breathed wisps of fog from her nostrils and stamped the ground from her master’s attention. She was a smaller horse than the others, with strong, straight legs each booted with white hair. In the chill night, Trinidad was warm, and even though he had a wool coat, Wharton nestled into her chestnut body.

“Alright, alright everyone back inside!” Stanley appeared abruptly on the scene, with a steaming cup of mulled wine. “This ghost tale is malarkey. I’ve settled the boy that saw the apparition. He was seeing things in the dark on account of his poor eyesight. Everyone back inside!”

The party groaned, communally bemoaning the loss of possible excitement tracking a ghost in the dark, but shuffled in through the side door. 

Wharton patted his horse goodbye and paid the servant holding the reins a shilling to make sure Trinidad received extra attention that night. It was already frosty, and Wharton wondered how chill it would become. He was the last person to alight into the house. 

In contrast with the cool early winter darkness, the lit sitting room had a rolling fire. A boar’s head over the fireplace was glowing from below, extending its fearsome tusks into shadows. Whoever stuffed the beast was skilled enough to give it the appearance that its eyes were always following the observer. It sent chills down Wharton’s spine. The glass pupils glistened in the firelight. A servant was already going around with a tray of digestifs. Wharton grabbed one before standing with his calves toward the fire. It was the only way to escape the boar’s cruel glare.

“Well bring the boy out here! If it’s some kind of prank, I want to question him. A night before a fox hunt and he comes in howling about ghosts,” posited Mr. Gardner.

Wharton overheard the statement from across the room.

“Don’t make a spectacle of him, Harry,” his wife swatted at his suited shoulder.

Mr. and Mrs. Harold Gardner were a scrupulous older pair. Mrs. Gardner’s dresses were a touch out of fashion and her jewelry a bit heavy for a dinner before a fox hunt. Mr. Gardner was a sharp-chinned gentleman who arrived pre-sauced and had only continued to drink. By now, he was ruddy-faced and slurring. Wharton wondered how he’d stay on a horse the following morning, since if he’d drunk that many gin and tonics he’d be riding a chamberpot and not a horse.

Harassing a scared-out-of-his-wits servant didn’t sound like a sporting party game to Wharton either, but he wasn’t trying to stir up anything with the old guard here. He had to fit in, appease them. These men and women would later help him find his footing in the house of lords. Instead, he sipped on his cognac and hovered as close as he dared to the boar’s head.

Cobb was wearing a slinky dress that was perhaps  _ too _ in fashion. He was able to peek a large portion of the ample tops of her breasts, wrapped in a dark green satin. She was very becoming. Wharton straightened tightly as she came over.

“You act like I’m some kind of huntress stalking you when you stiffen like that.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Wharton wheezed. He sipped hastily on his drink.

Her lip quirked wryly, and she waved a servant over for a cognac like his own. After the servant left, she wrapped her long arms around her chest, elevating her bosom, and sighed to Wharton.

“You should go listen to Stanley. He’s telling the story about hunting the elephant in the foyer. I’m sure it’ll be more enjoyable than flinching at the boar and judging people.”

Wharton glanced sourly at Cobb but knew if he denied her statement, she would only press him more. Instead, he accepted her assessment and weaved his way past the bridge tables toward the lord of the manor. A small group of people surrounded Stanley wherever he went, now was no different. He was flanked by several lords and ladies.

“Now I know James, and he’s a chap that doesn’t scare easily,” Stanley glanced into his swirling mulled wine, “It’s unbelievable he ran in here white as a sheet howling because of a play of the light.”

Wharton realized that the topic had changed to the servant who saw the apparition outside moments ago. 

“What did he say he saw?” Wharton queried quietly. Apparently, he’d picked the perfect moment in the conversation since his voice was the only one in the empty pause.

Stanley chuffed and fiddled with his moustache but assented to the question.

“He said he saw a massive man in a savage’s armor wearing a mask and covered in white. That the light flickered off of it like ice. Unbelievable really. I poured him a brandy and gave him the night off. He was rattled.”

“Sounds like a Zulu warrior has come back to haunt you, Stanley!”

The group laughed wildly, hooting at Harry Gardner’s joke. Wharton chuckled lightly under his breath, hoping to fit in. He was the youngest among them.

“But of course, there is some credibility to it. Zulu witchcraft is serious. The curses I witnessed! For example, they drink a bat’s blood from a human skull and their enemies come down with some kind of sickness. Boils and pustules black as pitch. Gasping for breath until death. I saw it myself in South Africa. I could imagine if the crime was serious enough, they could raise the dead for revenge.” Grifith added, undercover, as if a witch doctor was listening in on this conversation from beyond the grave.

“I’m a man of science and discovery, Grifith,” Stanley tilted his chin proudly. “It’s all superstitious nonsense. What you saw was classic gorilla warfare. I was at Rorke’s Drift and we beat those primitives back with our superior tactics and courage alone. No negro witchcraft can stop me or the crown, but I do believe there are some serious plagues on the cape. It’s too filthy to keep good hygiene.”

Grifith didn’t seem convinced.

“How would you explain what the servant saw then, Stanley?”

“Perhaps James is sneaking absinthe again,” Stanley reasoned with a curl to his lip.

The group laughed unanimously.

“But anyway! Enough of that ghost story. I don’t want to give anyone a bad night.” Stanley glanced briefly in Wharton’s direction, which caused him to swallow a bit too much cognac in one swig. 

He coughed as the aromatic liquid burned down his air pipe. Grifith slapped him on the back roughly to aid in his ability to breathe again. The surrounding men began to chortle at him.

“Easy boy, next time try not to come to dinner so buttoned up. That krevat must be strangling you,” Grifith muttered.

“I’m fine,” Wharton croaked, barely audible.

“Stanley, tell us about the elephant!” Mrs. Gardner practically pleaded. Thankfully, the group shifted their attention away from him. Wharton, when he could breathe again, took a sigh of relief that he wasn’t the group’s focus any longer.

Stanley cocked his head sharply and held the pose for a moment. 

“Oh alright, anything for my public. The elephant you see in the entry isn’t a bull elephant you see, but a female. A matriarch. Elephants are fascinating creatures. The eldest beast is the wisest, the most cunning, and the most battle-scarred.” Stanley twirled his moustache proudly while boasting of his hunt.

“My group had surrounded the herd of about twelve. I had signed on with some ivory hunters, and this female had skewered at least three groups of hunters defending her family. It was quite noble of her, but in the end, I was fiercer. She had gutted my mount and taken out the hunting carriage. I’m certain she could’ve stopped a locomotive with the way she charged.”

“Around me lay three men dead, and I was prone, with a broken ankle. She reared over me. Her feet were the size of carriage wheels, and each as powerful as steam engines. I rolled as she stamped and yanked out a sword from a fallen boer’s belt. I forced it’s tip into the roof of her mouth, right into her brain. I was fortunate she didn’t land on me, but she slid off like a fainting damsel to the side. Took out whatever remained of the carriage.”

The crowd surrounding him had hushed during his story. Everyone had baited breaths until the end of the report. Mrs. Gardner clutched her pearls and gasped at the climax of the tale. Stanley nodded proudly and attempted to placate them as if humble.

The rest of the party clapped, but Wharton suddenly understood why the creature in the entry hall made his heart leap out of his ribcage when he first saw its frightening visage stampeding toward him. The poor thing had died in fear defending her family. Wharton slunk away from the group, slightly ill. He decided to spend the rest of the evening nursing his drink and playing poker with the other hunt club visitors. This popularity contest was doing nothing for his already pale complexion.


	3. The Hunt Begins

Bright and early, Wharton was already up and outside in the sharp air to check the tack on his horse. The stable hand had done an acceptable job dressing Trinidad in reins and saddle, but Wharton knew what she preferred, especially for a long chill day afield. In the night, the frost had set, turning the rolling lawn from muddy green to white. He loosened the strap under her by a notch and shifted it lower on her belly. She neighed and stamped happily.

The servants had set out a tea trolley in the drive for the guests preparing their horses for the fox hunt. The sterling tea pot’s spout steamed in the light breeze. Wharton took a cup and saucer from the piles. He prepared his tea with cream and sugar before feeding Trinidad a palmed sugar cube. She nibbled on his hand with her upper lip. Now that Wharton was settled in the peaceful morning, he looked around the compound with fresh eyes.

A rag-tag group of townsmen was wearing fielding garb. They wielded long wooden canes for beating about the brush to disturb the fox out of hiding. Wharton felt more relaxed among them as they reminded him more of home than the staunch gentlemen and ladies from last night, but in his fine beaver tophat and proudly embossed cuff-links, he was already marked above them. He took his tea alone while the working-class men smoked pipes and talked amongst themselves.

A flock of pigeons suddenly burst from the rooftop, and Wharton in the gravel lot startled. The tea spilled over his glove. He followed the birds as they flew out into the blue sky for a few seconds before his eyes drifted back to the roof. It looked a few shingles lighter than normal, and it had an odd halo of light. Wharton winced into the brightness. There was some kind of _corona_ emanating from the roof.

“Curious,” he muttered, but abruptly the doors of the manor flew open and Stanley, along with his normal brigade, paraded onto the drive. 

They were dressed in the splendor appropriate for a fox hunt, and as members of the hunt staff, wore red coats with gold buttons based on rank. Wharton, a humble visitor, had bought in to the hunt, and wasn’t allowed to wear the red coat. He wore a ratcatcher instead, which was fine with him. 

“Up at the cock’s call, huh, young master Wharton?” Stanley slapped Wharton on the shoulder, making him spill more of his tea. 

Wharton grumbled a response, but when he looked back up to the roof after the disruption, the phenomenon was gone. He discounted it as some play in the light of the rising sun and all those blasted copper gutters that crowned the place.

“Where are the dogs!? Grifith!” Stanley bellowed.

“I’m here m’Lord.” Griffith rode up with the mark of the Master of the Foxhounds and as expected, a pack of forty foxhounds. Their energy was playful and excited. Wharton could tell by the snake-like shivers in their upright tails. The pack filled the drive and Wharton was quickly swarmed. Curious noses sniffed him from boot tip up to his tea-wet hand. A pair of tongues began to lap at the edge of his tea saucer. He batted them away gently.

“Well, I dare say we are almost ready. Where are my whippers-in?—” And Stanley moved away in the same fashion he appeared, abruptly and brutishly. Wharton’s shoulders dropped in a wave of relief. He’d rather spend his time with the dogs than that handsome, accomplished man who enjoyed razzing him so much.

Over the next thirty minutes, the gravel drive filled with horses, other visitors in dark attire, and the fox hunt staff in their bright red coats. It was a big party. Wharton took count of who played what role. Grifith was the Master of the Foxhounds, the MFH, but that was appropriate as the leader of the hunting club. Stanley was the Huntsman, the leader of the hunt. Cobb and a surprisingly not ill, Mr. Gardner, were whippers-in along with many others. They carried the three-foot whip to corral the dogs in the event of a riot. Wharton was simply pleased to mount Trinidad. It was the first time he’d felt comfortable since leaving his own home days ago.

If anything, he was ready for a healthy sprint through unfamiliar countryside. The weather, albeit chilly, was perfect for it. Finally, with a blast from the hunting horn, Stanley rode down the lawn, flocked by hounds and the hunt began.

Picking up the fox’s scent took some time, and involved covering a broad area. This was the least exciting part of the hunt as it involved a lot of mapping the area. Wharton mentally noted any hidden fencing, dangerous pitfalls, and streams. 

Grifith, apparently deciding Wharton required some social assistance, rode abreast of him whenever he could, prattling on about the Zulu war and the atrocities he witnessed, or even into territories as banal as what was served for breakfast. Wharton considered ways to outpace him without appearing rude but wasn’t creative enough to dodge the man hell-bent on entertaining him. 

“I tell you, the Battle of Isandlwana was a bloody massacre. I remember well the 20,000 Zulu warriors, equipped with nothing more than their assegai...that’s what they called the iron spears they wielded...and their oval patterned shields that slammed into our mountain guns with no fear for their lives. God bless the souls of the dead. Fifteen hundred proper Englishmen lost their lives that day,” Grifith swayed on his saddle as he shifted for his flask. He took a sip and offered the silver vessel to Wharton, who declined. It was far too early for drinking by Wharton’s standards.

“My word, boy, you’re quiet!” Grifith suddenly griped with a hearty laugh.

“If you ever took a breath in your tales for my addition, I would have taken it,” Wharton mumbled as his horse clomped over the frozen ground. A brook lay in front of them. He made a mental tally of it and turned along its bank, looking for a good crossing.

Grifith followed his direction.

“Well now, I suppose you’re right,” he positively wiggled indignantly, “tell me about this Steeplechase you won. It was a topic of conversation after you retired last night.”

Wharton shifted uncomfortably at the idea that the hunting party talked about him during his absence. He had hoped to disappear into the evening and be forgotten, but alas, this didn’t seem to be the case.

“Not much to tell,” Wharton thought for a moment. “It was a warm spring morning in Liverpool. The four-mile course was muddy. I didn’t go in expecting to win. In fact most of the race, I was behind three others, who were neck and neck. Bailey of Manchester was in the lead, and he is a very skilled rider. I was simply happy that I was doing as well as I was until on the third to last jump before the finish, Collins of Leed’s horse, Champion, caught his hoof on a pole and tripped. It took out the three leaders in moments. Collins was crushed to death, for heaven’s sake. I was docked a point for going around, but I managed to finish first.”

Wharton swallowed dryly, “It isn’t exactly...a victory I wanted.”

Grifith stared at him with wide eyes. A frown pressed into his ruddy jowls. “I can imagine. How horrible.”

“You don’t have to be at war to see wretched things,” Wharton spoke quietly. For a brief second, he thought about the Scottish hunting lodge his mother took him to twice. It's dark entry and cold hallway lead to a fire-lit chamber with the exposed rafters. He remembered the man who first sat by the fire with the same hazel eyes Wharton possessed, but then later hung from the rafters. Wharton shook his head quickly to banish the memory.

“Indeed,” Grifith agreed with a thoughtful pause to sip his flask again. 

Together they boarded the brook in a shallow spot and clambered up the embankment. Cresting over the slight rise in the earth, a pack of dogs was growling up a tree. Wharton trotted his horse over and peered up the trunk. There was nothing there, but the dogs kept sniffing, orbiting the oak, and barking up into the boughs above.

“What’s all this then?” Grifith snorted at his side.

Cobb joined them. 

“It’s an odd hunt,” she peered up into the same branches quizzically. 

“How so?” Wharton asked.

“The dogs keep catching on a smell that leads them up trees. Normally they aren’t so responsive to squirrels.” 

“Has there been any fox sign?” Grifith responded.

“Oh yes,” Cobb snapped her whip at the amassed hounds. They circled the trunk for smell and as they moved away, she followed. Wharton clicked to Trinidad and snapped his reins after Cobb. “But the hounds are distracted. Not ten minutes ago I witnessed three foxhounds jolt in fear. One moment they were behaving as any dog would, happy tails, and then whoosh, all three of them were whimpering and cowering as if they were instantly slapped hard on the rumps. Strangest thing.—” 

Cobb was interrupted by a horn blast.

“Ah! We have a fox!” Cobb snapped up her reins and bolted off. Wharton did the same. Grifith wasn’t as responsive.

In the open field, a dash of red could be seen bolting toward the heather with a herd of dogs at its heels. The hunting party was thundering behind. Cobb and Wharton charged down the hill to join them. 

The hounds were in hot pursuit and so were the hunters. Wharton was rejuvenated jumping angled fences and stone walls. His bad mood from the previous night was lifting. Trinidad was an incredible mount. He flatted down to her spine and launched into the bramble after the hounds while his spirits soared. He was soon outpacing the other riders who followed behind him, he practically crowed with joy and almost did, if it wasn’t for the hounds pulling up short.

The pack had lost their trail and were pooling around a tree base again. Wharton steered his horse over to the tangle of roots. Maybe he had arrived too late and the hounds had snared the fox, but as he trotted over, leaning over the saddle, he realized the dogs were lapping at a red pool. Their wiggling spines were periodically being hit by red drops as they fell from the branches above.

As he craned his neck up to search the tree above him, in what felt like the theme of the hunt, Stanley burst into the clearing.

“My word, man! Move aside!”

Wharton detected a hint of aggression. He supposed Stanley didn’t appreciate being upstaged in the race to the fox. 

“There is something in the alder.” Wharton ribbed Trinidad out of the way with his spur as Stanley joined him. 

The larger man peered up into the boughs with a tight frown.

“Seems you’re right. It’s some kind of skinned animal,” he agreed less than amiably before drawing out a pistol, sliding the mussel over his forearm, and aiming into the tree. The shot rang out, scaring the dogs, but a red mass immediately dropped from the branches to the ground.

Mrs. Gardner shrieked and covered her mouth. A stir went through the entire party as more and more of them gathered around.

Stanley attempted to shush them as he slid off his horse and inspected the freshly fallen corpse. There was no doubt the body was a man’s, skinned to the raw meat. Nothing was left of the flesh. The body was slick red like a freshly bled deer. Wharton felt ill. He could’ve used Grifith’s flask at the moment.

Mrs. Gardner wailed again, and Cobb had to stabilize her in her saddle lest she fall into a feint.

“Get the woman out of here!” Stanley hissed. Cobb nodded and led the older woman away.

“Who is it? Who isn’t here among us?” Grifith was pale as a sheet as he glanced around the clearing.

But there wasn’t a single remaining identifying mark on the skinless muscle, and the group that had collected around the corpse wasn’t the entire hunting party.

“I think it's Davies,” Grifith sounded strangled, “same height.” 

He swallowed then and whispered, “It’s the Zulu ghost. An Afrikan witchdoctor did this.”

Stanley gnashed his teeth. In the heavy silence, the grit of his teeth boomed.

“Superstitious nonsense, Grifith! This is a murder, and someone _real_ will need to pay for it.” Stanley cocked the hammer back on his pistol.

A whistle emanated through the air. 

Stanley flexed away as if he only twitched, but something struck Grifith from his horse. He toppled to the ground. He wheezed once before his body contorted tightly and immediately relaxed.

Within seconds, a spear blinked magically into existence piercing through Grifith’s fallen body. The dogs growled and the horses reared, startled out of their calm wits. Several of them bolted away uncontrolled, their riders scrambling for purchase on flapping reins. Wharton grabbed Trinidad’s bridle as she bucked and skillfully kneed her into a gallop. The hunting party fractured fearfully and without direction.


	4. The Chase

Wharton’s mind blanked as he darted straight into the woods. Branches whipped his face and booted calves as he picked any direction that would carry him away from the crowd and Grifith’s...fallen body. He heard shots ring out in the receding distance. But whatever panic he felt was diminished in the familiar and calming speed of his horse. Adrenaline throbbed in his body but on a base level, he knew how to channel it into riding, which he did and he did it well.

The hitch was that Wharton had no idea where he was racing. After an unknown amount of time, heading in  _ a direction _ , the young lord snapped out of his narrow focus and realized he didn’t recognize his surroundings. Wharton believed he had a good sense of the lay of the land, but he had only been exploring it for the last few hours. When he slowed Trinidad’s pace to a trot, he scanned around at the unfamiliar cedars, wintering ferns, and stoney ground, and sucked his teeth miserably. He was woefully off track.

Wharton listened for the telltale sound of gunshots, but there were none. It was uncommon for fox hunters to carry firearms at all. Stanely, and his need for  _ appearing cavalier _ , was obviously an exception, but his revolver was likely spent of its shots now. Wharton wasn’t sure he wanted to regroup with the others either. If there was a person, or a ghost, gunning for Stanley or other members of the party, Wharton was safer if he stayed away from them. After all, Wharton had done nothing to merit anyone’s murderous disdain. He hadn’t fought in any wars.

Wharton fumbled for the chain to his watch and fished the gold clamshell out of his waistcoat pocket. He snapped the locket open. The clock ticked almost eleven, but what Wharton really wanted was the compass on the inside cover. It pointed North on Wharton’s right. He finally had the bearings he needed. The map of the hunting ground fell into place in Wharton’s mind. 

If Wharton wanted, he could keep riding straight, eventually, he’d break through the manor’s parkland into farmland, and perhaps find a nice village to call in the police.

While clomping forward, to pass the time, Wharton considered the attack. The spear  _ really was _ invisible! It wasn’t a trick of the eye or its speed. The spear traveled, struck Grifith from his horse, and then blinked into being. It went beyond science as Wharton knew it, and he was an educated man, a graduate of Oxford, the best education a gentleman could receive. So how could such a thing be possible? If it couldn’t be explained by modern British engineering, then perhaps the hunter  _ really was _ supernatural. His weapon certainly was, and his manner of killing was so brutal, perhaps he was indeed a Zulu out for revenge. Wharton agreed with himself that the weapon was likely some kind of Afrikan magic trick, or maybe...the party had been psychotropicly drugged. 

Stanley’s horn blast echoed through the woods nearby, and a shiver traveled up Wharton’s neck hairs. 

Wharton didn’t want to be around any more people than he needed to be. They obviously weren’t safe in groups...Or perhaps that was what the Zulu wanted them to think. Perhaps the ghost was trying to separate them...to be picked off individually. Wharton swallowed with fear unable to make a decision. There were too many options before him. One, follow the horn blast and regroup to hunt the Zulu. Two, avoid people entirely and hopefully stumble on an out of the way farm. Three, return to the manor, hole up, and wait for the police to arrive. He worried his lip with his fingers while thinking. 

However, he didn’t have to make a decision, because, at that moment, a massive creature walked out of the brush several meters in front of Trinidad. Wharton had never seen a creature like this before. It was the size of a hulking bear, speckled with fur and raw skin. From its maw, dripped the bloody remains of a mutilated hound. Wharton could tell because of a loose, gnawed paw. It had to be a hyena! An Afrikan hyena, here in England!? Wharton swallowed while he felt the blood drain from his face. He was suddenly very light-headed. Trinidad snorted, equally as frightened, and began to back away from the slobbering animal.

The hyena growled, so Wharton quickly spun Trinidad around and darted off in the opposite direction. The creature barrelled forward in pursuit. Wharton didn’t have time for nerves. He throttled them down inside and took a challenging course through the woods. With the map of the grounds in his mind now, he remembered all the sprints and follies. There was a stream nearby to lose the beast. He could jump a few fences after. Then there was the spring through the meadow and the thickest part of the woods. Hopefully, the creature would cross paths with some other, more interesting prey and it would leave Warton for an easier target.

His heart hammered as he guided Trinidad through the sprint. She was a beautifully dependable animal. His sharp focus became hers. While this was the first time Wharton had rode because his life actually depended on it, the feeling was very similar to racing in a steeplechase. Trinidad easily jumped a wooden fence, but when Wharton looked back to see if the hyena was daunted, the beast slammed through the barrier. What a brutish juggernaut!

Trinidad raced to the stream, sprung across the banks, darted to the left then to the right, hobbled up a gravel slope, and finally galloped at great speed across a lawn. At the stone fence, she gracefully soared over the folly as if transforming into a pegasus. Wharton and Trinidad collectively panted when they reached the briar hedge, and this time when Wharton looked back there was no pursuing hyena. His nerves rioted, but he had to press onward. He drew out his compass again, clicked to Trinidad, and led her along a worn deer path. 

The beast was still out there, he had to keep moving.

But as he plodded along wearily, he spotted a few foxhounds worrying something in the undergrowth. He whistled to them, and they dropped whatever they were devouring. Their tails wiggled happily despite their fearsome bloody mouths. They seemed for the most part unaffected by the horrors of the day. Despite his concern for the return of the hyena, Wharton dropped out of his saddle. He might be able to use whatever the dogs had found. He wound Trinidad’s reins to a bush branch and investigated the ground.

It was a young red fox, mutilated and gutted. The dogs, without the huntsman and whippers-in, had desiccated it to pieces interlocked with bones and limbs. Wharton kneeled over it with his heart in his throat both from the adrenaline that pumped through him and because he always liked foxes. They were energetic creatures despite being pests to the farmers’ flocks.

He wasn’t thinking clearly in the flush of fear, but he thought once again of his hunts as a child, of being blooded, and the gruesome marks swiped over his cheekbones that wouldn’t wash off easily. 

Wharton considered doing that now as if he was preparing for war. Instead, he bowed down to the carcass, pulled out a hunting knife, and cut off the footpads, tail, and head. A strange response to being almost devoured by a hyena, but the woods were quiet now. Wharton’s own mind was still. This seemed like the appropriate response, to preserve this poor creature as the trophy it was, as it deserved to be, despite the hunt’s rude interruption. He would present it to Stanley, if the man lived, and prove to that stubborn fool that Wharton wasn’t to be further harassed. That despite everything, the hunt was partially successful, because Wharton was a level-headed Brit that could finish any task before him, no matter the odds.

His hand lingered on the soft fur of the dead creature. The pelt was ruined from the dogs’ teeth. Wharton hefted the small skull in his hand and peered at its lolled yellow eyes with a heavy sadness. His hands were red with the animal’s blood, blending into the ochre of the animal’s fuzz. Wharton hadn’t a sack or satchel to stash these remains. Instead, he pulled a length of twine out of his pocket and tied the four paws, tail, and head together. While he worked, he hadn’t noticed the dogs whining and lopping off, so when he stood and turned back for Trinidad, he startled.

Not ten paces away was a giant man, masked, almost nude, and painted completely in crimson. Skulls hung heavily on his low-slung loin cloth. His dark locks were almost long enough to tickle the skull tops. Wharton would have turned and darted up any tree he could like a common squirrel if he was able, but he was paralyzed. The Zulu ghost wasn’t a ghost at all, and lord in heaven, the man was enormous, carved as if from marble. He’d heard some tall tales of the negro physique before, but he thought most of the description was all guff, aimed at gullible children and impressionable minds.

The Zulu took a step toward him, and fear jolted from his feet to his crown. This was it. Wharton was going to end up skinned like a spring doe or worse, like the ravaged fox in the hedge behind him. Wharton was a god-fearing man, so when presented with something his mind couldn’t fully understand, he fell back on the time tested and true method of groveling. He dropped to his knees and presented the small bundle of fox to the incredibly sculpted figure in front of him. At any moment he expected the death blow, but instead, the Zulu collected the trophies.

Wharton lifted his eyes and observed the man from his lowly position. He had legitimate talons! How fearsome! And he was dragging those talons along the fine fur of the fox’s tail. He tilted the head this way and that but then his masked gaze shifted back down to Wharton, who cringed. The man growled at him, and this time as he stepped forward, Wharton had the sense to scramble back until he was pressed against the trunk of a tree. Unfortunately, the Zulu’s mass trapped him against it. The man shook the tied together collection of fox trophies at Wharton and growled again through the scratched up mouth-piece of his steel mask.

Wharton, a well-spoken Englishman that never encountered an Afrikan Zulu warrior before, had no clue what the significance of any of this meant. Still, politeness was a default, especially in the face of blatant power.

“They’re your’s,” Wharton sputtered with a weak crinkle of a smile, “please, spare me.”

Wharton had never met anyone so imposing before. With a mind of its own, his gloved hand freed itself from its death grip on the tree bark behind him and reached out to touch the savage’s incredible abs. Unbelievably, the muscle was very real, and Wharton’s eyes widened as his fingers slid over the sinewy twitching core of the man, who hadn’t yet decided to kill him. The growl he was emanating was becoming a thick purr like that of a large cat, perhaps a lion since they were from the same dark, mysterious land.

“You’re not going to kill me like some common game, are you? I’m afraid us Englishman are likely either boney or fattened.” 

While Wharton, in his current youthful adulthood, wasn’t exactly a fattened goose. He imagined he was likely quite gamey. After all, he liked sport, and although a lord, he hadn’t exactly been living that life for long. He had a finely exercised body. Obviously not as chiseled as the exhibit before him, but he was heads above other examples of fine British gentleman. Well, except for Stanley.

“Do you have a name?” Wharton tried to be peaceable. Surely, everyone had a name regardless of their birth. “My name is Lord Herbert Wharton of Ipswich.”

His response was only a series of clicks.

“Heh. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch an ounce of that. I’ll just call you Red because of your….” Wharton dragged his eyes down the savage’s form and swallowed, “hmm….war paint? Does that name...work for you?” he wheezed hopefully.

Apparently Red agreed because he tied Wharton’s bundle of fox scraps to his belt. Or on second thought, maybe Red didn’t, because he brought his talons to Wharton’s neck. However, the stranger didn’t gut him. The tips were dragged down the column of Wharton’s throat to sever the threads that held his upper shirt buttons in place. Wharton twitched, but Red continued to slice the buttons off one by one until reaching his waistcoat, which he parted in a similar fashion to reveal the final row of shirt fasteners. The buttons scattered about the clearing as Wharton’s clothes parted to expose his torso to the brisk air.


	5. The Affair

Wharton squeaked as coldness shocked his bare chest and nipples, but his surprise spiraled when he was brutishly spun and pushed against the tree trunk. The roughness of bark against his chest was almost canceled out when Red began hefting the meat of Wharton’s buttock under his trousers. Clearly, the Christian missionaries hadn’t yet interacted with the primitive behind him, because the man's forwardness made Wharton flush crimson. Red’s lower abdomen was flush against the Brit’s rump and the deep purring rumble dispersing from one’s muscle to another’s was making Wharton hazy with arousal. 

There was a strange heady smell wafting through the air. If Wharton closed his eyes, he would’ve believed it was the peak of spring bloom in the forest instead of the beginning of frozen-earth winter. The scent was having an impact on him, bodily. He seemed to be breaking out in a feverish sweat. Beads of moisture were collecting on his upper lip, and he was shuddering with pent-up energy.

Wharton wiggled against his captor unsure of whether it was a weak attempt to escape Red’s considered groping or to grind against the beast more since the rubbing only sent bolts of pleasure to their points of contact. He moaned out of the blue, and then covered his mouth with a gloved hand to prevent another indecent exclamation. 

When only more excited whimpers slipped through his fingers, he gave up entirely. Instead, his hands flew to his button fly and began to struggle frantically on the fasteners. His face was probably as florid red as his hard cock. The Zulu obviously wasn’t ashamed, or if he was, it was carefully hidden under his metallic mask and his war-paint red skin. At some point during Wharton’s mental journey, the man had dispersed his own loincloth. Bare arsed now, Wharton could feel his captor’s enormous manhood arc between his frost-touched cheeks and his lower spine. His knees almost gave out with want.

Wharton had bedded two women in his life, but men being intimate with men was a topic he only overheard once. It was incredibly taboo. Thankfully from that single furtive eavesdropping, he got the gist of what was to happen next. He couldn’t imagine anything as large as what the native possessed could go...where… Well, the hole down  _ there _ was quite small. However, the arousal grinding against him was slick, and with a smooth rock forward, the tip of it tried to stretch his puckered hole.

Wharton yelped! His mind, swimming in a hormonal cocktail of lust, fear, and a hint of pain, like an arrow firing in a dark room and somehow hitting the target, forced his hand into his coat pocket. Inside was a tin of mink oil. He had used it to polish and moisturize his black and tan riding boots that very morning. Afterward, he had slipped the container into his pocket in case they lost their shine later. He offered this to Red while nearly rupturing with poorly contained heat.

Red didn’t take it, and when Wharton wantonly peeked back with hazy eyes, the man was only staring at the tin as if it was insulting him. Wharton tsked. Red was obviously uncivilized. Wharton pulled the disc back quickly and fumbled off the lid with sweaty fingers. He scooped a dollop onto two fingers before briskly working his own hole with the cream. 

His lover only watched curiously, a slight tilt to his head. A strand of his locked hair fell off his shoulders. Wharton was struck with how insanely bizarre this experience in his life was. One moment he was racing through the forest astride Trinidad, outrunning a hyena, and the next he was lustily abandoning himself to the grip of a strange man over an oak, fingering his own asshole for purposes he could barely comprehend.

However, his lubed touch did feel very good. At first, he was panicking about his need to be prepared. His muscles were clenching against his rubbing, but now they were liquidating, separating to his stretching. Part of his mind believed he was making a fool out of himself, when the savage would have simply worked him open with his bludgeon of a dick, like dressing a fish with a knife, splitting the animal down the belly, parting two pheasant halves for spatchcocking. Wharton whimpered at the thought when the man behind him took his thrusting hand and pinned it to the tree bark above his head. 

Wharton keened when he was penetrated again by the thick head. It stretched him wider than he thought possible, but the mink oil helped. He arched his back and sank farther down the length. As it haltingly parted him wider and wider, Wharton open-mouth groaned, so involved in his abandonment he had to slurp back his saliva.

Were the British afraid of the Zulus because this was their standard operating procedure, to meet a gentleman and immediately bend them over a tree, stick their backsides out, and rut them senseless? Africa didn’t seem too bad a place when he thought about it like that. Certainly exotic, perhaps too much for most discerning British lords. It was a culture Wharton was unfamiliar with. Perhaps it was terrifying enough to go to war over. But Wharton’s brain was delirious.

And the cock kept moving deeper inside him. It felt endless. Every twitch, every ridge of flesh, sent ripples of fulfillment into Wharton’s previously untouched insides. He was aching and in awe, but this was only the start. If this was the first single thrust in, what would happen when the beast actually began a rhythm? 

Was he to be some kind of beaten drum? At the end of this copulation, would Wharton feel hollowed out like his own skin was stretched tautly over emptiness? Oh but what music he would make. Eventually, the hips of the man settled against him. Wharton gasped a strangled breath. The sounds he was currently making were obscene. He’d scare all the birds in the forest! What if someone actually heard him thinking he was being skinned alive and saw him like this instead? The absolute horror!

With the Zulu hilted, Wharton finally could catch his breath, which was a satisfied deep sigh, but the tail end of his relaxed exhale was ended abruptly when the heathen pulled out. Wharton was amazed his inside didn’t go with him, but oh did his guts churn for the second of vacancy only to be stoppered fully with a deep thrust back in. This was the rhythm he was starved for. 

Red’s nails dug into the soft flesh of Wharton’s hip crease as he manipulated his leg higher to get a more thorough thrust. Wharton hadn’t a clue if this was doing it for the man. He barely made a peep, save his strange big cat purr. The thrusting was certainly doing something for Wharton who had moved on from moaning and was now babbling obscenities. He had lost all track of time and hadn’t a clue if the process had taken only a few minutes or several hours. He was so lost outside of himself and the concrete foundations he’d come to trust in the world.

Throughout this process, Wharton barely considered his own erection as it grazed against the oak’s rough bark, but at last, he reached for it with his unpinned hand. It took moments for him to struggle out his completion, he was so wound up. His own ministrations to his ruddy turgid need made him shudder and jerk against the brute with a gasping finality. His backside likely clenched the man’s penetrating girth with pulsing vigor, because the negro growled and hefted Wharton away from the tree abruptly. Wharton, spent but still rolling in pleasure, went willingly and accepted the hulk’s firm guidance toward a fallen log. Red even reoriented Wharton so they faced each other without missing a beat in his thrusting.

Finally bent backward over a different tree than they started, Wharton’s back was pressed against a thick blanket of soft moss coating the bark. His legs were wrapped poorly around the wideness of the Zulu’s waist. The beast pushed one heavy full pulse, and Wharton felt a dousing spray fill him. His hand tightened in whatever strange hair the man possessed. He ground down on the incredible gift-giver that in a crude tongue could be called a cock, but at this point wasn’t anything less than divine, and accepted the giant’s substantial flood of essence. It seemed to pour out of his stretched hole regardless of the hardon still rigid within him.

Red grunted and pulled out. Wharton felt an embarrassing gush between his legs of the leftover seed. He was relieved that his trousers weren’t soddened with the overflow, as they were discarded on the forest floor several paces away, but immediately he missed the filling sensation of the Zulu warrior rearranging his interior. He was already moving away, and Wharton practically threw himself up after him.

“Red!” He hated the piercing whine in his voice, but the giant stopped and turned to appraise him. Wharton swallowed his embarrassment. Yet he was positive he was still beat red. “Where are you going?” he shrilly pleaded.

The warrior pointed into the trees. Wharton barely followed his finger before the man launched himself into the trees and jetted off through the boughs like strolling through the park. The young lord stood in awe once more of the strength and agility of the foreigner who had come to these English shores for what purpose? He wasn’t a ghost, that much was obvious, but could it be possible that he was really here to end their lives? Then recognition spread that Red was going in the direction of the manor, and despite the intense intimacy the pair had achieved, Wharton was suddenly struck with concern for his fellow Englishmen. 

Red was going to the manor to kill more of them, surely that was the fact at hand. 

Wharton hastily refastened his, thankfully dry, trousers, and jerked his jacket back on over his ruined shirt and waistcoat. What was he doing?! What if someone saw! He’d be disowned, imprisoned, perhaps slaughtered on the spot. Whether or not he’d just been ravaged by the man, the Zulu was clearly out for blood, and it was Wharton’s duty to stop him, to protect his people for heaven’s sake! Think of his religion! The Crown! The children!? Whatever he’d just felt wasn’t acceptable. It was surely a sin.

He whistled for Trinidad, who was minding her business throughout the whole affair and perked her head up from a patch of exposed grass. She clomped over. Wharton now red with anger instead of embarrassment, put his foot in her stirrup, and threw himself up. He immediately regretted the action. His rump ached painfully. If he encountered the hyena again, he wasn’t sure if he could outrun him. Wharton couldn’t even post properly as he spun Trinidad around and poorly trotted back to the manor.


	6. Convictions

Kar’minja sheathed his bladed fists back into his gauntlets as he hefted the bloody human skin. On his return to the human den, he encountered a frightened man wielding a wood and iron rifle. He wore a crimson coat like so many Karmine had seen during their own hunting ceremony. His prey’s hair and beard were steel grey with age, but apparently, humans didn’t become more difficult to hunt as they became older. This one appeared addled with substances too.

Karmine threw a stone to create a sound in the opposite direction of where he stood, and the startled human fired one round after it with shivering, fearful eyes. He listened fretfully afterwards for any sign of his attacker’s movements, but Karmine was silent as Cetanu. He crept up behind the human, slipped out his gauntlet’s blades, and shoved the knives into the epicentre of the man’s body temperature. His prey crumpled into death instantly without a single thrash of instinct left.

It was...disappointing.

But the man’s skin was easy to strip at least. It was loose on his muscle, soft with wear and age. Karmine folded it carefully before storing it in his collection bag that hung over his shoulder. Based on its weight, he should collect trophies frugally until he killed his target or returned to his ship, which was possible. Karmine was nearby the manor, and therefore, his ship.

As he stood from his crouched position over the fresh corpse, his hunting dog plodded out of the bramble. The grey and green-scaled beast had blood and entrails smeared around its maw but rubbed into the yautja’s hand warmly. Karmine petted his rough head proudly as he moved toward the edge of the forest. 

From the line of trees and over the green lawn, he could see the flurry of panic surround the building. His arrival and subsequent initial human trappings obviously sent them into frantic scurrying to prepare. The sun had barely crested the peak of its orbit, and while winter, it still would be several hours before the planet rotated back into darkness.

The humans were fortifying against him. That was exciting.

Karmine decided then that he was going to wait until evening before bombarding the human dwelling. He was too curious to see how these creatures would prepare for him. Up until this point, he wasn’t particularly impressed with them as a prey animal. They died easily without much effort. 

He launched into the tree above him to hunker down and wait. The dog below him knew to keep a perimeter until his master commanded him.

Propped against the higher trunk now, Karmine sunk into a yautja hunting trance. He could stay alert in this capacity for weeks if needed. While his senses were razor-sharp and sensitive, his mind wandered. 

Karmine fingered the canine skull and fluffy tail that hung at his hip. While the humans were underwhelming as prey, the one called Lord Herbert Wharton was surprising in terms of sexual gratification. If Karmine ran into the man that presented these trophies to him again, he would be unable to resist taking him as he had before. While Lord Herbert Wharton’s small body was initially resistant to intrusion, once properly greased and relaxed, penetrating him was perhaps the tightest hole he’d ever rutted in.

The human man had named him Red and thought he was a mighty example of his own species. What a laughably stupid line of reasoning. The yautja chuffed to himself. The species wasn’t proving themselves intelligent, tight hole or not. And from what Karmine had seen of the human species, Lord Herbert Wharton wasn’t an ideal example in stature. He had some muscle but was obviously young compared to Karmine’s main prey.

Karmine used his helmet's scoping visor to seek through the windows of the manor. The moustached man that was his primary focus was likely the one giving the orders in the house. When Karmine disturbed their hunting ceremony, the human group had splintered into many directions. While some fled to the countryside, others slowly, and with little stealth, slunk back to the manor before returning to the woods with simple projectile weapons like the man Karmine recently killed. However, his main prey returned to the dwelling but didn’t reappear. Karmine was hopeful the man was preparing a strategy.

Already, he was wise enough to stay away from the windows. Karmine’s scope didn’t find his prey’s silhouette moving in the panes. In fact, as if on queue, several servants began going from room to room closing the curtains. The yautja continued his patient vigil.

Lord Herbert Wharton had shown some skill when piloting his riding beast away from Karmine’s hound. Karmine followed the chase from the trees. It was uncommon to see Karmine’s hunting dog thrown off the scent when the horse reeked so meatily of sweat and soil. Humans were strange creatures. Too soft to be considered tough, but creative. 

Karmine considered their softness again. Wharton’s dark fur on his head and groin, his pettable pinkish skin, the delicate smell of his arousal unlike the heavy headiness of yautja musk. He was easy to force into submission and Karmine wasn’t even particularly rough.

Karmine grumbled with appreciation. He felt the stirrings of his cock within his sheath, but he stifled the burgeoning arousal. It was not an appropriate time.

As if he summoned him with will alone, Karmine spotted Lord Herbert Wharton emerge on his horse across the rolling lawn. The human was bounding towards the house with the hooves of his animal kicking up clods of sod. His seat was raised slightly but in line with the animal’s spine to build speed. Karmine appreciated his expert form as he quickly dismounted in the gravel drive and disappeared into the stables.

When he reappeared, he was without the horse and ran into the manor at a full sprint, but then... nothing. No sound. No following action. Karmine, while perked up to see him, settled again into his trance. Waiting until nightfall was the appropriate decision. Then he could use the darkness to his advantage.

“Stanley!” Wharton bellowed as he threw himself into the back door of the manor. He nearly took down a servant lighting a gas lamp in the parlour, but barely took the time to apologize. When he hit the parquet tile entry, he spun in a circle shouting for the home’s owner. “Stanley! For Christ's sake! You don’t know what you’re up against!"

The house was abuzz with other hunters, running this way and that with updated or antiqued hunting equipment. They barely noticed the young lord belting his head off. The main entrance door was already barricaded with a heavy wooden table. The carved lion heads on the legs stuck into the foyer instead of resting heavily on the ground as they should. The taxidermied elephant glared daggers at Wharton as if he interrupted the elephant's charging escape.

“Don’t I?” Stanley was polishing a Moroccan scimitar from the top of the stair landing. In the setting sun, the stain-glass behind him cast a blood-red pattern across his feet and face. He calmly descended in a lazy step-by-step.

Wharton scowled at the condescension. He almost forgot how much he disliked Stanley. “Yes, man, listen to me. We should get everyone together and leave. Let the servants abandon their posts. Call in the proper police.” He took a pause to reel in his pitch and swallow. “The Zulu. I met him in the forest.”

“Met him?” Stanley prowled forward like a jaguar, darkly curious. “As if you shook his hand?”

Wharton actively blushed. “He’s no ghost, is what I’m saying, Stanley. I don’t know what his reasoning is to be here killing men, but we should leave now. There is no reason to waste our lives defending this manor. He has no interest in it, I’m positive.”

“I am not fleeing from a godless savage you coward.” Stanley swished the blade through the air. Wharton had to step back to avoid the slicing-edge. “Whatever he wants or whoever he is, I will meet him in combat. I’m sure I am his focal point as he is a Zulu from the dark continent, and I’ve slaughtered his kind en masse before. But tell me, no one else has met him without meeting their end, so how’d you get away alive?”

Wharton faltered. He wasn’t entirely sure. Suddenly, he looked away and dreamed of returning to the forest. It was simpler there beyond the confines of this society.

Stanley stalked closer with a predatory purpose. He walked a full circle around Wharton eyeing him to shreds.

“It must be because you’re a bit animal yourself,” Stanley smirked cruelly as he flicked Wharton’s collar with his scimitar tip.

Wharton realized then that his carefully maintained suit was still torn and soiled from his bout in the forest. He must appear half-animal, surely, in the state of undress.

“I like to be aware of all newcomers in the House of Lords, so forgive me,” Stanley was not a dash apologetic sounding, “I did look up your history Lord of Ipswich, and…” He tsked Wharton like he was a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. “What I found sounded disreputable. Are you really a bastard son to a Scotsman?”

Wharton snarled with his teeth immediately fed up with what Stanley was implying.

“What the hell do you know about it! I’m coming to you now, telling you you’re outmatched by a real man, and you choose to condescend the help. You’re a fool. A self-obsessed fool!”

Stanley’s lip curled but he took a step back to consider Wharton in front of him. “Yes, yes I am. And when I’ve killed the primitive that’s here to murder us all, you’ll see it's not without wieldable purpose. But I’m impressed you said it so directly for being such a snivelling weasel before. Here. Have a gun.” And he strode over to a glass display table that lined the entry, opened one quickly, and produced a shotgun.

“I used this in the Siege of Eshowe. I hope you will use it just as well. Now pick a spot to secure and stay out of my way. Once I fell this negro, I’m going to have him stuffed like any other animal. Maybe he’ll make a more impressive centrepiece than the elephant.”

Under the furious eyes of the elephant, Stanley abruptly belted the scimitar in a jewelled scabbard at his hip and returned upstairs leaving Wharton to his own devices. Wharton glared holes into his retreating spine. He was an infuriating man. 

Wharton checked the weapon he held almost as a second thought. He threw the strap around his shoulder and headed for the kitchen.

The dark halls with the curtains shuttered made the taxidermy haunting. In each room, one lone gas light was lit, stretching the shadows along the walls and flooring into long twitching beastal monsters. At the arched doorway into the kitchen, Wharton peeked around the corner, but no one was lingering.

Instead, Stanley’s servants were in hiding. After some searching, Wharton found them huddled together in the butler pantry. Barricaded badly, and obviously scared out of their wits. 

“Apologies, I'm simply craving a cup of tea,” Wharton's lip edges pulled down. He really wished Stanley had heeded his request to allow the servants to leave, but maybe the Zulu wouldn’t pay the men and women working in servitude an ill death.

“Darjeeling, sir?” One of them shakingly croaked. 

“I bloody don’t care right now,” Wharton shook his head to bat away his anxiety. It was unfortunate he was sharp with them. His next words were softer. “Anything will do. Anything at all.”


	7. The Plan

Wharton glowered in the darkened parlour with his fourth cup of Darjeeling tea clanking on the fine china in his shaking hands. In the last few hours, as the night became darker and darker, the hunters that hunkered down in the rooms and halls had begun to disappear. Wharton hoped the reason for this was that their senses came to them and they abandoned their posts to escape this madness, but the truth was that the Zulu likely removed them. The ranks were substantially thinned out now, and the remaining men and women were perpetually sweating. Morale was very low.

Wharton wondered distantly why he was still there waiting. He had even taken the time to change out of his shredded rags as if he was hopeful to continue living past this night, or perhaps the idea of someone finding his corpse in a poor state of dress made him feel uncomfortable. He couldn’t say either way. His nerves were in shambles.

Cobb sat across from him on the settee spread out like it was her own expansive land to lord over. She still wore her riding boots with her riding crop laid over her thighs. She twiddled with it absentmindedly.

“Simply waiting for this attack is a complete flopping failure,” she muttered, “but I think Stanley’s plan is going to work.”

“If by  _ work _ you mean to get us all slaughtered,” Wharton replied sourly. While he may have somehow survived his encounter with the native, and he swallowed dryly at the thought like a bone became wedged in his gullet, he was certain that by returning to the manor he was back on the menu, and not in the way he would have preferred. He took a big swig of tea to soothe his throat.

“Now now, sour puss. I don’t see you coming up with any brilliant ideas.”

“The very fact that he’s chosen you and me as bait in his grand scheme, is a terrific sign that he has no hopes of our survival.”

“Hmm, I think it's actually quite arousing don’t you?” She smiled a wide, lecherous smile at Wharton. “Talk about the  _ thrill of the hunt _ . When has fox hunting ever been so exciting? The only threat facing us this morning was a ghost and a hangover, or a silly death from drinking too much and falling off a horse into some ditch. Instead, there is a bonafide Zulu warrior collecting British skin.” Her laugh was shrill. 

“Ms Cobb, would you please!” Wharton hissed grumpily. “This isn’t some joke. Our very lives are forfeit so that Stanley can look the hero.”

Cobb spun her crop lazily.

“You can always leave.”

Wharton narrowed his eyes at her even though she kept her sights on the spinning switch. 

“It’s dark,” Wharton stated. He wasn’t sure he could  _ leave _ . Now that he was in the fortified castle, it might actually be safer inside. The missing individuals were certainly the ones that left the safe bowels of the hunting lodge to either patrol the grounds or, still hopeful, escape Stanley’s idiocy. Wharton sipped his tea.

Stanley entered abruptly. His animated eyes darted from Cobb first then to Wharton. Cobb smiled sweetly back. Wharton glowered darkly. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t moved to stronger stuff.” He cut to the liquor cabinet and poured two fingers of scotch. He shot the mess of it and clacked his teeth together after. “I’m ready.”

“He’s not going to be predictable, Stanley. I bet he’s already in the house somewhere.” The prospect of a gruesome death apparently helped Wharton come out of his shell because hours ago, he would never have dared to take that tone with Lord Stanley.

Stanley raised one bushy eyebrow at Wharton and eyed him over shrewdly. 

“Fair point. So...how about—” His hand shot out and slammed into Wharton’s chin. The teacup shattered on the ground and Wharton braced himself up from the floor. He had a second to wipe the blood from his lip before Stanley caught him by the collar. 

“I suggest it’s time you have a smoke.” Stanley didn't wait for a reply before hauling Wharton’s struggling body to the curtained door and heaving him outside onto the cobbled steps. Wharton tumbled heavily down onto the gravel drive but flew himself at the door as soon as he righted himself. To Wharton's dismay, it was held fast. 

“Stanley!” Wharton rasped.

“The plan, Wharton!” Stanley could be heard muffled through the glass panes. The curtain fell back in place, obscuring the insufferable man.

“The plan...” Wharton stepped back grumpily and tugged his buttoned coat down. His jaw still ached from where Stanley had punched him. He should’ve struck back, but he wasn’t prepared for a strike. Frustrated by his lack of mettle, Wharton grumbled under his breath, “not so much a plan than a catastrophe waiting to happen.” 

But regardless of the threat, he took out his cigarette case and popped one in his mouth with shaking hands. He fumbled the first match, but the second held long enough for him to light the thing. “What am I supposed to do? Course the place until I’m beheaded? This is ridiculous.” 

Still, his cigarette quivered in his lips. Now that he was outside, his life would surely be short. He had little faith in his own abilities to evade the Zulu for long. His only hope was that the warrior would grant him clemency from their time in the forest.

So under the gaslight illuminating the gravel drive, Wharton scanned the horizon. The chill temperature hovered closely. There was moisture in the air. Wharton suspected a winter downpour wasn’t far off. He wrapped his arms around himself and shivered before exhaling a plume of smoke. 

“Absolutely ridiculous.” he continued to mutter, “Oi Stanley! I might die of chill before catching this damn big fish of yours! What then?” 

Stanley didn’t reply in any way Wharton could hear. Wharton grumbled deeper whilst fiddling with his cigarette.

A fog was settling over the lawn as it rolled out of the forest. It churned heavily over the ground. Several white deer floated through it, radiant in the cast of the manor’s outdoor lighting. One of them perked their ears up in Wharton’s direction. The night’s darkness was nigh impenetrable, not a star twinkled above. No moon shone through the clouds with clarity. Rain was likely on the forecast. Wharton puffed another plume of smoke in the direction of the forest, shivering with cold and nerves. 

However, the gushing smoke pricked around  _ something _ . The tendrils curled in a strange manner as if an unseen entity was moving towards Wharton. It was a ludicrous thought! Wharton knew better, but it almost looked like…a  _ ghost _ . In an instinctual panic, Wharton stepped back hastily and scrambled towards the door. Thankfully, this time, the door opened as he struggled on the knob, but Cobb and Stanley were nowhere to be seen in the parlour beyond. As Wharton tripped on the last stair to splay out on the tiles, he nervously unshouldered the gun Stanley had given him earlier. The heavy drape fell back over the door. 

There was no time to get up to close the door, but the weapon was already loaded. Breathing heavily, Wharton pointed the barrel at the open entrance and the curtain that covered it. It billowed in the cold wind rushing into the manor. He waited several long breaths, rigid with fear and preparation.

Finally, it parted as if by a hand. Wharton shrieked and fired at the gap. The bullets pinged off what Wharton could only assume was the invisible bulk of an otherworldly warrior invading the manor.

Wharton was out of ammunition and fumbled up to escape. He remembered even in his fear the path Stanley had created through the house. He had to get upstairs to the servants quarters.

“Stanley!” Wharton howled scrambling up the stairs and entry, felling any stray furniture in his path. Where did everyone go!? It was like the house was suddenly empty save himself and this devil he let in! 

“Stanley!!!” He shrieked until his throat was raw. “He’s invisible!”

But there was no response as he hit the second floor and headed for the servants' stairwell. He kept creating obstacles, unsure of how much it really made a difference. Rasping in the doorway, he hoped he had lost the phantom pursuing him. Where was Cobb?

His eyes swung around the hallway he stood in. There was no sign of the pursuer. But even in his fear, he knew that he couldn’t trust his vision. The Zulu was surely somewhere before him. In madness or in logic, Wharton grabbed a flower-filled vase off a hallway table, heaved its beauty over his head, and dashed the poor thing against the hall’s floor. It shattered into pieces. Water exploded outward. The destroyed flowers lamented in a shower of blooms and ruined petals. The decorative marbles that held the arrangement fast in the bottom rolled out in a sheet over the hardwood. They spilt out as far away as the entry stairway. Wharton heaved for breath waiting and waiting for a sign.

“Wharton!” Cobb poked her head out of the door leading to the upper level. She was directly behind him. Wharton almost jumped out of his skin. She hissed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Shhhhh. Quiet. Watch…” he shushed her mouth with a finger and pointed to the marbles speckling the floor.

Down the middle of the hallway, the marbles began to part, tinkling away.

“What in the world!?” Cobb hissed.

“Go, go! Get up the stairs.” The two of them pushed and struggled up the narrow servants quarters stair to the upper attic hallway. This passage was tighter than the one on the second floor. At the end was Stanley with a revolver pointed at them. He was standing behind a 3-inch cannon. 

The British field gun was without the normal cart. For this tight setup in the servant’s hall, the large spoked wheels wouldn’t have fit. Instead, he’d propped the iron barrel onto a collection of ruined furniture and strapped the destructive thing down with what appeared to be worn gentlemen’s belts. To Wharton, the setup looked primed to kill not only his Zulu pursuer but also an idiot willing to fire it. The kickback must be a tremendous force and he doubted the furniture was enough to counterbalance.

“Come on, come on. Get your asses over here and plug your ears. We’re going to stun the negro. Maybe even maim him!”

Regardless of the obvious poor setup of the cannon, Wharton and Cobb tussled down the tight hall to hide behind Stanley’s cannon. Wharton covered his ears woefully, kept as far away from the cannon as possible, pressed into the corner, but kept his eyes frozen to the entrance doorway.

They waited with bated breath staring at the empty opening. The doorknob might have wiggled or it could have been their imagination. For several long minutes, they hung waiting. 

“You were supposed to bring him up here,” Stanley growled at Wharton. “How’d you cock this up? He can’t be intelligent enough to expect anything.”

Wharton seethed back. “Something's not right about this whole thing, Stanley. When has an Afrikan had the ability to turn invisible? They’d take over the world with a power like that?”

“More witchcraft babblings, Wharton? I didn’t expect that nonsense from you.”

As they bickered, they missed a squeaking sound at the dormer window. The threatening rain had finally started to dump from the sky. A lightning bolt struck the ground in some far off hamlet, just as the glass broke and the brass latch flipped open. Flashes of light hit the floor as a drenched invisible body stepped inward and rounded the corner on the three Brits.

Cobb screamed first. Stanley fired a full revolver of shots only for each bullet to ping off the soaking obstruction moving toward them. The Zulu’s invisibility spell failed and his monolithic red body crowded down the hall. Stanley flinched as the size of the man. He nearly fumbled the long pike known as the lint stock but regained his composure long enough to place the fuse to the cannon’s touch hole. Within seconds of the gunpowder catching and the warrior charging at them, the cannon boomed out and an iron ball shot down the manor’s servant’s quarters.

_ Thunk! _

The spiralling cannonball was snatched from the air by the man’s massive mit for a hand. The fist of lead stopped dead from the Zulu’s strength alone. Equally awestruck and terrified, the lords and lady stared at the warrior holding the still-smoking sphere in his palm. He even had the audacity to drop the heavy ball to the attic floor. The wood cracked under its weight.

“Bollocks.” Stanely croaked and the three Brits scattered haphazardly as the Afrikan darted forward into the far end of the hallway. 

Cobb remained wide-eyed like a rabbit being plucked from the sky by a hawk and was snatched in the pursuer's grip as Wharton practically fell into a servant’s empty attic bedroom. He scrambled to the small bottle-glass window and threw himself out on the roof as Cobb began to scream. As the thunder cracked, Cobb’s scream was cut short.


	8. The Discovery

Wharton’s foot skidded on the shingles as he shimmied along the copper gutters. Within seconds, he was drenched in the torrential downpour. Rivets rushed into his eyes. He prayed to God he wasn’t moments from slipping in the freezing rain and falling to his death. His fingers were numbing. The winter’s chill was seeping into his bones. It coated him as he crawled from one window to another. His frightened eyes darted to the window he left behind for any invisible shapes parting the falling sheets of rain.

There was no way he would be reentering the attic, not with that thing still up there likely skinning Cobb's corpse. 

As he moved along the roof edge, the downpour parted like entering a hidden cavern under a waterfall. Confused, Wharton looked up to see the rain bending over him. There was some kind of large shape above him, invisible too, but shielding him from the rain. His shredded senses couldn’t offer an explanation. He shivered in the cold and continued onward. 

At the gutter’s downspout, he breathed fitfully onto his numb digits and rubbed them together. They would need to be sensitive enough to scale down to the bedroom level of the manor owners, but as he leveraged himself over the edge, the bottom of his boots slipped. Hanging from his drenched fingertips, he was too frightened to scream, but a lightning bolt and the resounding thunder helped him refocus on pulling his body back to the wall. After a rasping breath, he scaled down the pipe slowly until he got to the lower stone ledge and disappeared into the nearest bedroom.

He was drenched and nearly frozen. His body rattled with chill. Thankfully, the bedroom’s fire was still lit from the time the servant prepared the house for the evening. Immediately, Wharton stripped off his soaked coat down to his white water-stained shirt before poking the fire to a healthy glow. It’s warmth curled over his bone-cold pale cheeks, but it didn’t prevent his teeth from chattering.

He practically thrust his numb fingers into the flame and tried to focus on a direction out of his panic. The warrior wouldn’t be looking for him yet... if ever. There were options before him. Staying in this room and hiding until morning was a possibility. Or he could change into better clothes for the rain, perhaps find a Makintosh and a pair of goloshes, and get Trinidad from the stable. He wouldn’t want to leave the house without his trusted friend. She would be miserable getting him into town in this weather, but the alternatives were worse. This was likely the best idea, but leaving this room at all would take a huge rush of courage Wharton didn’t currently possess.

Instead, he shivered in the bedroom rubbing his drenched shoulders. A boom from outside electrified the darkened bedroom. He jerked in fear, eyes flashing around the room. In the grey of the lightning bolt, the linens and upholstery of the space were a pale blue. The cotton wall dressings were patterned with a hunt in a palette reminiscent of blue china. Wharton barely caught his breath when a gold clock on the mantel chimed. He jumped again, and almost hawked the piece into the fire in his fright.

Wharton’s mind was made up. He should weather the storm in here. It was safe and dry. He could lock the door and avoid getting himself killed if he stayed very quiet. After all, his gun was soaked through and without ammunition. He would have to disassemble it and fill it with dry gunpowder before he’d trust it to fire before evening searching for additional shot. There was not a chance of him leaving to brave a trip to the stables without an appropriate weapon. Even if bullets didn’t seem capable of piercing the formidable man… 

That couldn’t be true, right? Was he so caught up in the action that he imagined bullets pinging off their attacker? Did he really watch him catch a cannonball? No. No! It was impossible.

Instead, he left the firearm leaning on the mantle while he dug around the room’s dresser for a set of dry clothes. He eyed the pastel bed with its frilled canopy before his eyes drifted up to the door.

Was the bedroom door open before he got here? A jolt of panic shot through him. He skirted around the bed and shut the door as quietly as possible. Wharton practically heaved a sigh of relief when the lock clicked into place. He remained pressed against the door for a moment to collect himself when another lightning bolt streaked across the sky. This time Wharton’s nerves were calmed and he didn’t jump. At least not until he saw a shadow of a man on the floor blocking the window’s light.

Wharton squeaked and attempted to reopen the latched door when something caught him across the mouth. It felt like the warm grip of a hand. Wharton pressed his eyes closed in fear and disbelief as he was dragged away from the door. The invisible force shoved him onto the bed.

Unsurprisingly, the invisibility dropped revealing Red in his massive crimson splendour and skull-covered loincloth. The fox head and tail still hung from his waist with twine. Wharton’s eyes widened and he struggled in vain against the iron-vice hand against his jaw. He clutched at the wrist that pinned him, but was unable to make an impact on the steel-like muscle. His legs kicked hard at Red's unmoving thighs. Throughout his wiggling, the warrior extended a pair of twin blades from his gauntlet. 

The fight drained from Wharton instantaneously, and all Wharton could do was clench his body preparing for death. Instead, the blades sliced delicately into his trouser leg and exposed him, knee to groin. He shivered in the slowly warming bedroom air. The heat of the fire was spreading oddly on his lower abdomen. The Zulu was purring again. Wharton felt it against his inner thigh.

Red’s bladed hand palmed Wharton’s erection. He bucked against the sensation. That was the warmth he was feeling then, his own stupid arousal building from being manhandled. He didn’t know panic was such an intoxicating aphrodisiac. Wharton groaned and threw his head back into the soft blankets. Red pulled on Wharton’s erection in rolling tugs until Wharton was scrambling against him again but this time, to get closer. He mewed with pleasure. Within moments of Red roughing him up, he was on the brink of exploding.

Abruptly, Red stopped massaging his cock and Wharton whined miserably. To get a better purchase on working toward his release, Wharton wrapped his legs around the backs of the hunter’s thighs, seeking leverage. The Afrikan male easily pried him off earning him another whine. It was lucky that the man had gagged Wharton with his palm or he’d be babbling incessantly about his needs. He could only struggle weakly and whimper like a wounded animal.

Wharton glanced down toward his captor and saw with more clarity the savage’s gargantuan cock. He cried for he’d lost his coat with the mink oil somewhere in the past hours of waiting around the mansion. What could possibly grease him now? He watched the warrior remove a tube of something from his hip satchel and he felt its opening placed at his rectum. A chill spread into him. He writhed against his assailant's grip once more as the coolness began to warm, filling him with hypersensitivity. Unlike before when he was being rubbed off, now Wharton desperately wanted to be shagged senseless.

When Red inserted a frighteningly sharp digit, Wharton bucked against it, hungry for more. 

“Awwww,” Wharton hissed miserably, “do it already. Stick it in.”

Instead, the stranger swirled his finger inside Wharton’s orifice. Wharton’s thighs quivered. He couldn’t even ride the interloper. Red had pinned his hips down with his muscled leg as he continued to beat inside Wharton’s hole with his nasty digits. He expertly rolled Wharton onto his side and pushed the Brit’s unpinned leg on his torso. Wharton’s ankle barely reached the giant’s shoulder.

Then Red took his hand down from Wharton’s mouth to properly position himself into his angled hole. Finally free to breathe, Wharton wailed. He screwed his eyes shut preparing for the sharp entry thrust, but couldn’t think of anything he wanted more. Red took pity on him and forced his meat into Wharton’s tight orifice.

Wharton gasped loudly but he was past pain. His head rolled in pleasure. Whatever Red shot into his asshole was driving him mad. It convinced him to want to be filled immediately even if he was ripped apart on Red’s enormous manhood. 

Since their last intimacy in the forest, Wharton would be loath to admit, he had revisited his memories of Red shagging him like this in the background of all this preparation and panic to meet the warrior again. Feeling Red’s cock in him now, was the biggest relief he’d felt in his adult life. Who gave two shits about being a lord! This was far better.

Despite Wharton’s insistence, Red slowly entered him, rocking in and out, not exactly gently, how could anything that size be gentle? It was like a meat tenderizer in a puff pastry. But there was a romance in his rhythm that ripped at Wharton’s frayed senses. He gargled for more aggression, more speed, but he was also crying wistfully to even have this chance again twice in one day.

Finally, Red repositioned Wharton’s leg from off his shoulder and allowed Wharton to wrap around him, which he did deliriously. Wharton’s hands flew to his own dick. It didn’t take long to bring himself to finish. He did so breathlessly, eyes rolled back, so empty of air, he couldn’t make a sound but a death rattle. 

Now spent and exhausted, Wharton opened himself to be pounded deeply. His inside ached for more. Wharton had never considered himself particularly desperate for sexual encounters. The women he bedded were dull in comparison. His legs opened wider and the pressure of the Zulu’s cock brought him further into a state of bliss than he’d ever experienced. It was beyond description.

He was hard again and whimpering by the time Red pinned his hands back and began to thrust roughly into his tight hole. With abandon, Wharton threw his head back, arched his spine, and groaned weakly. He swore he could feel every passing ripple in that ample dick. It brought him to a wet-eyed, zoned-out state of exhaustion where he could only consider the passing of this much larger entity through his tight chasm. His muscles went loose, a willing gate to a bigger ship.

Red growled against him. The man smelled sweeter than he did a moment ago. Wharton’s eye cracked open to observe his gorgeous, exerting shoulders. With one final deep purr, Red came, filling Wharton with another wet gush of fluids. He felt pried open like a sluice channel. He panted against the man, moaning, and soaked.

“What the hell is this?!”

Wide-eyed and freshly alert, Wharton’s eyes flashed to the door where Stanely had just entered with a shotgun. A ring of keys hung from his grip on the gunstock. The Zulu was still buried deep inside him. Wharton blushed fervently.

“It’s not what it looks like!” he regained his voice in a shout, unable to control its volume.

“I think this looks exactly like what it looks like” Stanley was so disgusted, he nearly spit, but then he raised the rifle’s barrel against Red, who had stepped away from Wharton swiftly, uncaring about his exposure. His back curved low like a predator and his arms spread wide. Red howled at Stanley as if provoking the gun’s firing.

Wharton didn’t even have the shreds of his pants to protect his dignity. Instead, he stood shakily against the bed’s canopy’s column with his groin shielded with his hand.

“Stanley! Don’t!” Wharton pleaded. His other hand was out front in the universal sign of stand down. 

Stanley fired a round against Red, who dodged it swiftly. The round cracked the mirror above the dresser. 

“Stanley!” Wharton’s voice sharped to a nasty hiss. He grabbed for the hot end of the shotgun’s barrel to attempt to wrestle the point of the gun upward, away from Red. 

Unfortunately, a second round went off, and suddenly Wharton was wet again, but this time warm and in pain. He felt his knees land heavily on the wood before the world faded from him in a haze of black. The last thing he remembered was more fractured snarling and shouting. 


	9. The Man from Mars

Wharton remembered the cold air and the pouring rain. The freezing water hit his bare skin and ran from his fingertips. He was moving in and out of consciousness, but he felt light like he was floating over water. 

He was a child again, running through the rain back to the lodge in the highlands. Cold was all he knew back then too. It was like the world was never touched with sun when he was residing in those halls. His mother was a quiet woman, some might've said she was distant, but Wharton spent the most time with her in his seemingly short childhood. While she was married to Wharton’s father, she would often return to the lodge in the north for reasons young Wharton didn’t recall. Wharton enjoyed the long train ride then when he was a small child, wearing knickerbockers with a bow around his neck and running his wood horse against the window. Eventually, his enjoyment of the trains would sour.

The lodge was a dark place, secret and drafty like a castle. Wharton would find spots in the dark and hide, often seeing things he shouldn’t. He’d confusedly catch his mother pressed up against the keeper there, and with a child’s sense, never understood the implications of that level of intimacy. 

The keeper himself was a wind-swept, stormy-eyed gentleman, who showered Wharton with attention when no one was around but would later act coldly to him when the halls were occupied by other visitors. There was something shadowy about the man. Melancholy seemed to tail after him like a wounded dog. Perhaps this was why after a night of loud voices echoing through the tapestried corridors, a six-year-old Wharton found the keeper hanging from the rafters in the morning. Dead and cold, his hollow eyes focused on young Wharton as he began to scream.

Wharton didn’t understand death then. He didn’t understand what forbidden love was either, but if he had lived a little longer, maybe he would have learned. 

A shame, really.

As for death, he was, unfortunately, getting more familiar with it. It surprisingly felt like being in a bath that had been recently filled with boiling water from the kitchen hearth. This wasn’t what Wharton expected, but maybe this sensation was the choir of heavenly angels shepherding him back into the arms of God.

He smiled softly to himself and wiggled into the warmth. Ripples lapped at his buoyed limbs.

However, wasn’t his last moments on Earth allowing some heathen to ravage him senseless? Surely, without a priest to oversee his final rites, this depraved act would send him somewhere that was uncomfortably warm? 

Wharton jerked awake expecting hellfire and brimstone but finding only brightness. He winced into it and threw up a hand to shield his struggling pupils. Water dripped off his bare arm. As his sight adjusted, he found himself drifting in a square bathing pool similar to the London public baths. Steps led down from the edge into the depths. He scrambled over to them in a panic because the room around him glowed red from the ground. The red light grew brighter and brighter until the ceiling which shone with such radiant purity, Wharton was certain he was in a room made metaphor of the divine battle between good and evil.

To convince him further, smudged over the room’s odd glow were hectic, savage patterns in dark paint. He flopped up the pool’s stairs like a flounder escaping a net. His frantic eyes darted around the space from one hellish, demon design to another, but he found not a single door. This was to be his permanent, infinite cell! Oh! His torment was only beginning and he was ready to beg it to end!

Prostrated on the ground, naked, he was ready for any demon to strike, but after minutes and minutes passed, he peeked between his sheltering arms. Nothing changed between his initial panic and now. The pool’s water steamed. The lighting beamed down threateningly. Wharton sat up. If this was Hell, he supposed Satan had found that isolation and time was the simplest and most effective torture. Wharton really wished he paid more attention in seminary school.

Wharton stood and paced around his small prison. Even though he was nude, in the steam of the room, he was hardly cold. However, being so bare in an unknown place made Wharton feel uncomfortably exposed. He would have fought for a robe, but once again, this was hell. 

He fingered the wound on his stomach. It ached but was significantly better than what he expected after an arrival to the underworld. The gouge was crusted and tight around the edge. Almost like it was on its way to being completely healed. Wharton struggled with this idea and looked elsewhere.

The patterns decking the walls were some kind of pictogram. There was a story being told, but without the appropriate education, Wharton couldn’t make heads or tails what they meant. This was also strange to Wharton. Wouldn’t he be able to recognize the stories of the bible? He touched the designs with a hesitant hand. If he didn’t know better, he would have compared these designs to primitive cave drawings from the species before modern man, but they were clearly sophisticated. His education at Oxford told him that much.

The wall beneath Wharton’s fingertips abruptly sunk back. Wharton twitched his arms over his chest in fear as the wall slid open on Red standing in a similarly lit bedroom. The red light along the floor made his war paint appear brighter and shinier. His armour and mask were more metallic with an alchemical shimmer. In the firelight and the forest gloom, Wharton hadn’t noticed before. 

Wharton covered his genitals blankly. He desperately wanted a suit of clothing but he was positive this man wouldn’t be able to provide him with anything but a leather loincloth. Red carried a bowl of soup, and surprisingly, Wharton was hungry. Logically, this couldn’t be the afterlife. Red offered Wharton the bowl with a soft click.

Wharton took the offered soup with the hand not occupied with protecting his dignity. He sniffed it. The broth smelled meaty. There were chunks of something floating around, but they were unidentifiable. Red hovered over him. He truly was a giant of a man. Without a spoon, and none appeared forthcoming, Wharton lowered the soup regardless of the grumble in his stomach.

“Red…?” Wharton stared up at the warrior, who had yet to move away. “What is this place?”

Red chittered again, but then with a garble like a victrola’s horn, spoke. 

“Space-ship,” his voice sounded like a late-night radio show host.

“Like Verne's Columbiad ? ” Wharton squawked. His bowl of soup dropped from his hand and clattered onto the ochre ground. He couldn’t imagine how this could be the rocket that went to the Moon in Jule Verne’s story. It was really more like a demonic version of Nemo’s Nautilus, but even that was a stretch.

Wharton assumed Red didn’t understand this reference. The Zulu tilted his head and his thick coils tumbled over his shoulder.

“You must be joking!” Wharton’s pitch grew. “We can’t be on a space-ship!” 

Abruptly he pushed past the imposing man’s girth and staggered through the bedroom of his captor. There was an imposing, yet plush with furs, bed in the centre with a suit of armour in a lit cabinet. Wharton barely processed this as he stumbled for the door out. Red let him go.

The hall outside had fog wafting along the floor and the same uniform lighting. Wharton fumbled down the corridor in whatever direction suited his frantic mind until he spilt into an open room with a set of seats facing a curved glass window. He was slightly relieved to see rain pouring down the glass. Beyond the downpour, the grey English countryside revealed itself in the early morning, but from what little he saw of the ground, it appeared they were  _ hovering _ . 

“This cannot be real…” Wharton croaked around a tightening throat. His ears were ringing. He could barely hear himself speak.

The brief fumbling sprint from the bath to this room caused the blood to rush to his head. He really should have taken a moment to eat that soup. Wharton, now light-headed, crumpled to the ground. The mists billowing from somewhere unknown in the room churned around him, swallowing him whole.

He awoke in Red’s massive arms. Wharton hadn’t been cradled in memory, but the savage had him sprawled across his thick thighs as he sat in what Wharton could only assume was the space-ship's perch...or dickey box...the place from which someone would steer this strange capsule.

Red was holding a fresh bowl of soup in one of his hands.

“Eat,” his voice rang clear unlike before.

“Ah,” Wharton’s appetite had left him but he took it anyway. He tilted the bowl’s lip to his mouth and drank. It was very nourishing whatever it was. He felt invigorated after a few sips. “Oh, it’s very good.”

Red nodded and settled back into perfect stillness as Wharton continued to drink.

Wharton’s eyes scanned him over. Without passion clouding his vision, he had much better clarity on the Zulu warrior in front of him.

“Pardon my...curiosity, and if this is rude, I do apologize, but if the Zulu tribes had space-ships at their disposal, how could you have possibly lost the war? England might have the best navy in the seas but not in the...skies.” Wharton asked nervously. He wasn’t sure if this was sensitive territory.

Red chortled. The rolling sound, which Wharton could only assume was a laugh, jostled the young lord on his lap, who clutched stupidly to the giant’s shoulder. With an oversized, taloned thumb, Red cleaned a drip of soup from Wharton’s lip. After what looked like a short deliberation, Red placed his hands on the sides of his metallic mask. Suddenly, the mask hissed air. At first, Wharton winced in the cool breeze, but then his eyes widened to a breaking point at the jagged face that stared back at him.

In place of a mouth was a scarred set of pincers, moving independently of one another, and beyond that razor-sharp teeth. His eyes were deep-set pinpricks of bright orange ringed with ridged scales and whisker-like hairs. The forehead was an extended sharp plate in what Wharton could only describe as Jurassic. Wharton sat in the creature’s lap gaping for some time before abruptly screaming. 

Red covered his mouth with a hand. 

“Ksss,” he chastised sharply. 

Wharton mumbled his dismay into the paw keeping his jaw closed, but settled as best as he could. Red removed his hand.

“You’re an… an… inhabitant of the moon!” Wharton voiced in a complete daze.

Red tilted his head again before shaking his head. The beaded lengths that hung from his head rapped against his broad chest.

“A creature from beyond?” Wharton tried again. His voice was more peaked than before. 

Red thought for a moment and then nodded.

Wharton threw himself out of Red’s lap. The soup gave him the strength to stand without wobbling. The quick movement, however, shot pangs from his wound into his abdomen. 

“This is unbelievable. I must be hallucinating!” Wharton waded in the ship’s fog. His hand pressing into the pain on his side. The creature known as Red kept his fearsome eyes trained on Wharton’s pacing. He didn’t budge a muscle other than his tracking pupils. Despite his hideous face, Wharton still felt a delectable pull toward his intimidating bulk. It was unimaginable that the thing watching him now was the same man that inspired such desire in him, and yet… it was the truth. Wharton partially hoped this was all a dream, but he pushed onward. “Can you take me back to the manor? I’d really like some blasted clothes.”

Red’s piercing eyes looked away towards the ship’s front window and tapped out a strange pattern onto his chair’s armrest. A square light appeared in mid-air, startling Wharton, but the light contained what appeared to be a moving picture. The manor was on fire. The roof had pitted out and collapsed inward. Flames were climbing into the sky, illuminating the gravel.

Hot tears pricked the edges of Wharton’s eyes.

“Is this happening right now? What happened to Stanley!?” he gasped, “What about Trinidad!”

Red stared at Wharton levelly before putting back on his mask. It snapped into place without any kind of latch. Red reseated a tube in its base before abruptly standing to move away. Wharton watched his departure before acknowledging he had no idea where the man was going.

“Excuse me!” Wharton peeped. 

He chased after him, but the beast had opened a hatch in the wall and a cold wind was whipping through the hallway. Wharton hugged his bare body against the frigid air and trudged forward, but he wasn’t fast enough to stop Red’s exit. When Wharton arrived at the open door, he realized the alien had fallen from several meters up in the air, and that the space-ship was currently floating invisible in the sky.

Wharton backed away from the closing door and scurried down the hall to the  _ dickey box, _ or whatever this room was called, to see if he could watch Red from the air. The moving picture was still on the floating square above Red’s chair. Unable to find the man on the ground from the sky, Wharton settled into the seat built for a much larger man. He attempted to keep calm while he waited for Red's return, but it was difficult. To whittle away the time, Wharton turned his attention back to the moving picture.

It took a bit, but Wharton realized it was actually playing time in reverse. The fire was slowly assembling the manor instead of tearing it asunder. Eventually, the image moved into the structure itself as the fire was beginning to run through the building. From the viewpoint, Wharton assumed this image came from Red’s own vision like his mask had a lense of some kind.

Suddenly, Stanley came on screen. Red was in pursuit of him as he set fire to the building. His speech was garbled running backwards like this. Once again Wharton was reminded of a skipping victrola record. But it was odd to see Stanley so worked up that he would burn his own lodge to escape, or perhaps he was so ignited with the hunting spirit that he hoped to destroy the strange alien visitor anyway he could even if that included the destruction of all his other trophies.

The image ran all the way back to the moment Wharton was shot before the screen floating midair disappeared to nothing. The record must have ended.

Wharton scratched his chin, unnerved. He felt moments from passing out again despite the healed wound and the pleasant soup. He could only surmise that after being shot, Red took chase of Stanley, who while escaping, set fire to the manor. Wharton would have been burned to death if the bullet hadn’t taken his life. Thankfully, Red, a strange man from beyond indeed, took him on board this vessel and healed him with a technology yet known to humanity.

Wharton wasn’t sure if he should be thankful. What was to become of him? And what was Red doing now?! Floating in the night sky in his momentary prison, Wharton could only hope Trinidad escaped the blaze.


	10. Endings

Trees and bramble whipped past Trinidad as she galloped through the forest with her new rider. Her mouth frothed around the tugging bit as Stanley yanked her this way and that. He swatted her hips with a switch made of extra reins. He was particularly cruel with her handling and kept beating her to ride faster between the trees. Stanley was panting in almost the same measure as Trinidad. 

The smoke was thick from the burning mansion, visibility was poor, but at least the rain had stopped.

Despite her rider’s urging, Trinidad struggled against his instruction. Every time he told her to jump, she flinched and stamped her hooves down in the soil. 

“Come on you stupid animal! Do you want to get skinned alive?” Stanley growled as Trinidad once again skirted around the fence he wanted her to jump. She whinnied as she clomped the ground while throwing her head back and forth. Her brown eyes showed white at the edges. Stanley craned his own neck to look back at an unseen pursuer. His wild nerves transferred into Trinidad from his erratic directions. She knew something was after them. Something worse than the wild dog that chased Wharton and her yesterday.

Panic was rising in her blood, and Stanley was doing nothing to calm her down. She ran forward almost blindly through the smoke and fog, being whipped from behind by Stanley and being whipped in the face from the twigs she couldn’t see. It was a hellish situation.

Then Trinidad sensed a presence. In the haze ahead, an eddy curled sharply. She startled and reared up to kick her bludgeoning hooves into the air. Stanley tugged at her reins, trying to steady her, but in fear, she did it again, gnashing her teeth on the bit, kicking and bucking at whatever was haunting the fog with them. Stanley cursed loudly, but finally, she launched the man from her back and darted into the smoke’s cloaking protection.

Stanley, alone now or far from it, scrambled up to standing. His eyes watering from the fume’s sting. He drew out the scimitar that remained on his hip throughout the initial confrontation with this beast pursuing him. It acted like his sharp shield, jetting out in front of him. He swished its point through the air.

“Come out now,” he ground in disgust, “show yourself.” This was more to himself than the pursuer. After all, Afrikan negroes weren’t gentlemen and had no sense of honour. Calling the man a coward wouldn't stop the brute from spearing his back from within the shadows he was hiding.

Unexpectedly, the man appeared in the motes a few meters away. He was bright red, taller than any man Stanley had seen, masked in steel, and carried a diamond-shaped spear. Unlike in the dark servants’ quarters, as the warrior sprinted down the hall or in the fire-lit bedroom, Stanley finally got a good look at the  _ Zulu _ out for his blood. The fog in the grey of the English morning light seemed to make him shine like an ethereal fae. He looked nothing like the men he fought in Africa.

“You’re not…” Stanley swallowed, “what the hell are you?”

The creature deigned to answer before rushing Stanley. The point of the spear pierced forward but hit only mud. Stanley rolled away into the haze. He was skilled at fighting against spears, but he more commonly fought with a bayonet and rifle. Knowing that this creature was immune to bullets after the failed cannon shot made him abandon his guns in the mansion before alighting on Wharton’s prize horse.

The mud-covered Stanley from shoulder to hip. It was freezing, but his blood was running so hot, he barely felt it. Excitement and dread filled him. He would either die or emerge with a victory so rich he would never be able to equate its ilk again. He backed into the fog but the spear tip found him. He heard its deathly whistle and his instincts forced him out of the way. It struck earth. Stanley launched his blade at the wrist on the polearm but missed. He dodged again, picking up another swath of mud down his front. He would be covered in the muck shortly. 

But his breath was calm. He extended his senses into the world around him. His stalker was eerily silent, a true hunter. Adrenaline throbbed through him as he sunk through the cloudy clearing.

They tousled like this for some time. Stanley acknowledged he was being toyed with, but he was unable to discover how to put the attacker on defence. He had made very little successful strikes, and couldn’t find the beast in the smoke. Meanwhile, he was bleeding on his shoulder and his calf through the chilling mud.

Abruptly a wind stirred, flattening the fog down and away from Stanley. He shielded his eyes from the blast as he looked up into the sky. A strange twisted piece of metal was descending. As it sank down to Earth, it became larger and larger until Stanley backed away awestruck that something that large could fly without a helium balloon or propeller. It hovered for a few seconds above the ground before collapsing to soil like the invisible support holding it aloft fell apart in the moments before landing. The craft steamed before a hatch in its belly opened.

Stanley prepared for a second wave of giant men to descend from the gangway, but instead, out walked Wharton, oblivious to Stanley, wrapped in what appeared to be the fur of a bear and nothing else.

“Well I say, most intuitive controls I’ve ever seen, but drat, how is one supposed to land the blasted thing!”

Stanley, seeing an obvious way to tip the balance in his favour, darted forward toward the silly nit of a Lord. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,  _ Bertie. _ ” Stanley snapped gruffly as his sword tip jabbed into one of Wharton’s ribs. Wharton jerked his head around to see the wild eyes of Stanley. He frowned with a heave of his shoulders. Stanley positioned the blade against his throat. “What is he, Wharton? What is this flying machine you landed?”

Wharton sucked his teeth and slivered his eyes at Stanley, who pressed the blade lightly into the stalling lord’s throat. Getting the threat, Wharton cleared his airway.

“He’s from space and this is his transport.”

“Bullshit!” Stanley snarled.

“And you say you’re a man of science,” Wharton huffed snidely, “you can’t even listen to what your eyes are telling you.” 

Stanley jostled him roughly at his sass.

“Fine, show me.” He hustled Wharton backwards up the gangway into the open maw of the ship behind. At the edge of the blade, Wharton didn’t have much choice but to follow without struggle.

However, inside, Stanley struggled with keeping his focus. His eyes wandered around in awe at the patterned glowing walls, the looming fog filling the halls, and the apparent lack of doors. Wharton, sensing the blade’s pressure lessened, slapped the sword away and made a break back towards the exit. Stanley flailed his hand back and caught a handful of Wharton’s fur wrap. Stanley moved to grapple the young lord’s arm, but he wiggled free almost out of his cloak altogether.

“No you don’t you little weasel,” Stanley groused and slammed him against the wall of the corridor. Wharton was stunned from the force, and his head lolled slightly. Stanley did it again to further disable Wharton. He was blinking back the shock of the blow. “If I end this spaceman, and you’re still alive, I’ll make sure I find the darkest hole to bury you in for eternity.”

“You’re,” Wharton swallowed grimly, “not giving me much incentive…” Wharton focused sharply on Stanley, “to help you.” 

And the wall behind him abruptly sank inward and slid open. They tumbled backwards into a room adorned with skeletons. It was a wunderkammer of collected animals never seen before by human eyes. Nothing in the room struck either man as familiar even if they considered what was known and unknown of the fossilized history of the planet. The dead creatures around them had not come from Earth.

While both men were shocked to see the strange cabinet of curiosity, Wharton scrambled to his feet faster. He dodged deeper into the trophy room even while Stanley still lingered, gaping on the floor. Stanley's previous assessment, that the man pursuing the English around the countryside was not new to hunting and was quite seasoned, was only confirmed. The beasts’ empty eye-sockets glared at him with punishing force. He scrambled upright and seeing that this room also contained a rack of weapons, some in the shape of rifles or blades and others completely unfamiliar, Stanley selected a gun.

It was surprisingly light given its size. The barrel was short for close combat, and curved over his hand when grasped. The weapon began to glow purple once it covered up Stanley’s wrist. A trigger was felt under his index. 

“Wharton! Hide all you want!” Stanley laughed, “I’ll be back for your hide when your man is dead.” 

The young lord didn’t answer back. Stanley’s smirk plucked at the edges of his moustache, curling the ends up over his lips before he darted back into the corridor. The fog drifted around his booted calves. He was finally on equal footing with the man from outer space, and he had the element of surprise. 

Stanley exited the ship slowly. The strange weapon wrapped around his fist led his careful steps forward. The English countryside remained unchanged even though Stanley felt transformed from his visit into the space craft. His blood thrummed with hunting thirst but the forest line remained unchanged. The air smelled thickly of smoke from the burning mansion. Stanley’s eyes slid back and forth looking for any ominous curls in the smog or other signs of the invisible predator hunting him. 

He breathed out slowly, willing himself into a prepared state. An attack was coming. Abruptly, he dodged out of the way and pulled the alien trigger under his finger at a mote in the fog. The rifle dislodged a static ball of light into the woods. A tree groaned, shifted and fell, as the pulse bullet struck its lower trunk. The gust of wind from its fall blasted over Stanley. A spear blinked into existence at his feet.

The red man walked out of the mist and pulled his spear from the sod. Stanley spun the gun on him and fired. Another volley sprung outward, electricity spiralling off the sphere as it blasted free of the barrel. Once again a tree fell to Earth in the distance.

This strike was so close to his attacker, it singed the ends of the man’s hair. He hissed in pain as he rolled away. Stanley blasted away again and again, causing the beast to fall into a defensive posture. Stanley cackled as the space man retreated into the cloud hovering around them. However, the glow on the weapon was diminishing as he burned through the rounds.

“Stanley!” 

Wharton charged out of the woods on Trinidad. A spear was thrust forward like a lance but he was far from a knight wrapped in nothing but his bear fur.

Stanley pulled the trigger on his assailant, but the gun whirled a befuddled sorrowful note and clicked off his wrist. It fell into the mud miserably. Trinidad reared over Stanley as he fell back in fear. The horse’s hoofs barely missed him. Stanley drew his scimitar, and Wharton yanked the reins away. He didn’t want to replay the story of the elephant in the foyer but this time, with his own horse. Trinidad would not end up stuffed on some arsehole’s mantle. Stanley was destined to die.

Wharton guided Trinidad to come about as Stanley recovered to standing. 

“Helping this foreigner I see,” Stanley bit, “what of your own species you cretin! Have you fallen so far!”

“It’s nothing to do with the species,” Wharton called out, “I just don’t like you, old chap!” He charged forward again, plunging his spear tip at the man below him. 

Stanley dodged again. The gun in the mud was beginning to glow anew, Stanley noticed and reached for it greedily.

Wharton’s eyes widened as the weapon wrapped around his enemy’s hand. Soon, he would have to retreat to avoid its devastating attacks.

Abruptly, Stanley’s arm jolted with blood. The weapon exploded outward, throwing him onto the ground with a stump for a hand. Red walked out of the woods with his clawed hands floating over his gauntlet. Wharton surmised he had entered a remote command of some kind to detonate the stolen weapon. Unable to be kept down, Stanley was on his feet. His scimitar’s point jetted forward while his ruined limb was pressed under his armpit to staunch the bleeding.

“Let’s end this,” Stanley grit through snarled teeth.

Red nodded and jetted forward with his spear. At first, Stanley successfully parried. He crowed in glee after drawing a line of green blood over the attacker’s haunches. However, Red spun on his heel and twin blades slid from his gauntlet in an instant. They bit into Stanley’s ankle. He howled in pain before toppling over like a sack of potatoes.

The predator stepped soundly on his spine as he wiggled, and his blades descended on his back. Wharton looked away as Stanley’s final scream blended with Red’s powerful victory holler. Despite watching the earl meet his demise, Wharton was ill. After his betrayal of his own kind, what would he tell the authorities? 

Wharton opted to look into the surrounding forest instead of in the direction of whatever slaughter was concluding a short distance away. He considered the course of events if he trotted Trinidad back to the ruined manor. As the sole survivor, he would be questioned. What lie could possibly explain this? The deaths of an entire hunting party? The destruction of several men of the House of Lords? 

When he turned back, Stanley’s corpse lay half-submerged in mud and headless. Red carried his head at the end of his spine bones like a sick baton. Wharton nearly vomited the meagre dish of soup despite Red’s apparent immunity to the carnage he had inflicted on the dead man. As Red approached Wharton now, he moved Trinidad away in nervous fear. Was he going to be next? Was his death simply delayed for convenience? 

Trinidad whinnied as Red lay his paw on her soft snout, stroking her with blood-crusted mitts. She was calm despite what she had witnessed. Her reaction settled Wharton marginally.

“What’s to become of me?” Wharton asked the space man, “I will likely be imprisoned for what you’ve done or I will be imprisoned in the future from what I know of myself now and cannot hide.” 

He was referring to his sexual inclinations towards large frightening men. This was a revelation Wharton would be unable to bury simply to live in good taste like a decent, law-abiding Englishman. To marry a lady as a Lord would be cruel to the woman he could never properly love. He was as alien to this world as the man in front of him.

Red considered his question with a thoughtful tilt to his masked head. He continued to pet Trinidad. 

“Journey. With. Me.” The voice prickled in different intonations through the giant’s mask.

“Leave Earth?” Wharton’s eyes drifted to the sky. He couldn’t make it out between the blinding smoke and the grey clouds hanging over the landscape. Not a sliver of blue was apparent. He had never thought much about what existed beyond the confines of this planet, but already, a curiosity was building. Wharton could be the first human to colonize a world untouched by the British Crown. Wasn’t that his noble duty? Manifest destiny?

“Can I bring Trinidad?” Wharton’s gaze drifted back to the space man.

He appeared to consider this too.

“You already have your hyena. I’m sure one more animal won’t crowd your craft. You’ll barely notice her.”

Red’s hand moved from Trinidad’s nose ridge to her bridal. He began to lead them back to the ship. Wharton accepted this as confirmation. She boarded the gangway with little trepidation. As Wharton slid down from her back once onboard the ship, he queried the creature. 

“And what do you want of me?” He had already resigned that it was his responsibility to explore the stars and mayhap report back his findings to king and country, if possible.

Red towered over him, and the pause that followed stretched until the massive male lowered his hand on the back of Wharton’s neck. A shiver of arousal passed through the lord.

“Mine,” the mask crackled.

Wharton swallowed.

“What a foreign arrangement...”

The door of the space-ship shut, and within minutes, the alien craft left the English isles behind. 

On the ground below, Stanley’s blood cooled in the mud of the forest clearing. A fox appeared tentatively padding through the brambles.

He sniffed the air. His mouth watered hungrily. A warm meal in winter was prized for the creature. He jerked his fluffy tail as he plucked his way across the battle-torn earth, sniffing a footprint here and there. His own flanks were mud-stained, but as he reached the dead, he buried his snout in the wound and ate. 

The fox made happy snickering sounds as he wolfed into the unmoving feast. He was happy to live another day, survival at its finest and most rewarding.

After a few more hours, Stanley’s body would settle to the same ambient temperature of the early winter. Eventually, a group of townsmen enlisted to span the woods for clues as to what happened to the burned mansion and the dead hunting party would find him there, half-devoured and slightly frozen.

Meanwhile, Wharton would never return to Earth.


End file.
